Shadowed Victory
by mjbaerman
Summary: There is no such thing as a victory without a few shadows to dull its glory. (14) "Irony is a tart little hussy..." An important word from Pitch.
1. Foreshadowed

**Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians - it belongs to the brilliant Mr. Joyce and to Dreamworks Animation. I'm just playing in their sandbox.**

**This first chapter may come across as a little slow, but it's setting up for the coming chapters, which you will hopefully find more exciting. Constructive criticism is appreciated, if you're feeling magnanimous enough to leave a review. I'm a nutter for grammar and all things conceptual, so my updates will be steady at one chapter every week to two weeks. The complete story is in its final stages of editing, so if I'm really stoked by the reaction to it, updates might happen a little faster than scheduled. ;P I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Horrible, pulsating, burning, sharp, and staggering. The moment my staff snapped, I knew something went wrong. I had never felt pain like that before – like something was breaking inside my chest. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see straight. I couldn't defend myself. I couldn't even stand up. I almost didn't notice being slammed into the ice cliff, except when I hit my head and saw stars. A lancing pain shot through my side then, and it just added to the feeling of wrongness in my chest.

I was tossed like a rag doll into that chasm, alone. Or so I thought. Thanks to Baby Tooth, we survived, I learned who I was, and I got someone very special to believe in me. I saved the Guardians. Me! Jack Frost! I helped kids believe again. Do you have any idea what it's like to be believed in after 300 years of knowing you're missing an important part of yourself? I couldn't fathom the energy it brought, like I was ready for a worldwide snowball fight even though my body was exhausted. For being one, I didn't know much about being an immortal spirit, but I did know that sometimes we have to rest. Something about being immortal, but not eternal.

When we had to leave those kids, Jamie didn't want to see me go. I still couldn't believe it – that he and his friends could see me. So I talked to him, feeling warm and fuzzy about having to help a child understand that just because I'm not right there, it doesn't mean I'm gone. And just so we're clear, warm and fuzzy aren't things I feel very often – kinda foreign to a winter sprite. It reminded me of talking to my sister; there were a lot of memories there that were yet to come back to me, and I would welcome them when the time came.

Waving goodbye from the back of the sleigh was bittersweet. The energy those kids gave to me was still so new I didn't know how I was supposed to be feeling. I felt… jittery, and hot, and exhausted, and giggly, and whole. There was a twinge in my chest and side that actually kinda hurt. I just wasn't used to the attention. I sat on the floor of the sleigh with a heavy sigh.

Everyone was quiet, but smiling. We'd done a good job, and that was all that mattered right now. With Sandy doing his work helping the kids dream and believe again, we were ok to hitch a ride back to the Pole to regroup. I curled up and rested my head on my arms, keeping my staff close to my chest. My insides felt heavy; maybe that's just part of winning a big battle. It wouldn't take us long to reach the Pole, and I'd catch a snooze somewhere peaceful when we got there.

* * *

The sleigh ride back to the Pole was smooth and quiet. While the renewed belief of the children invigorated them spiritually, they were exhausted physically.

St. Nick cast a glance fondly at the newest member of the Guardians. It only took a few minutes to get from Burgess to the Pole with the use of a snow globe, but he was already fast asleep. The whole adventure had left Jack exhausted, and rightly so. Being corporeal to the children would take some time to get used to. It had been a draining experience for North himself after he had been changed.

Content with the outcome of everything, North enjoyed the clear sunlight of the morning over the glittering North Pole. The cold air in his face made him a little less tired, and he was glad to see his fortress, Santoff Claussen, a little worse for wear but intact and standing. It, too, had suffered some structural decay during the darkest hours of unbelief, but with his magic returned and the yetis still loyal, the safe haven would be on the mend in no time. The reindeer glided easily into the landing strip buried in the icy cliffs. The wooden runway creaked loudly and tilted under the weight, but with no further danger of disintegration, North promised himself he'd fix that very soon.

"Ok, everybody out," he bellowed. "We rest today and celebrate tomorrow."

The Guardians stirred and rose, filing out of the sleigh toward the fortress. North doled out instructions to the yetis that had come back on the sleigh with them: one yeti was to make hot chocolate and monitor the elves to make food for the Guardians, another was to prepare guest rooms for them to sleep in for the night, and a few others were to free the reindeer of their tack and feed them.

Bunnymund hissed and tottered as he stepped out of the sleigh, and would have tipped if Tooth hadn't zipped over to right him.

"Bunny, are you all right?" North asked, stifling a yawn despite himself.

"Yeah, yeah…" Bunny muttered. He lowered himself to all paws and tested his legs gingerly. He winced, lifting his right leg off the floor "Must've injured my knee during the fight. Didn't stiffen up until now… Probably tore something."

"Let's get you inside," Tooth said. She spotted him closely as he three-stepped into the fortress. North watched the rabbit with mild concern. If he was badly injured, it would likely take more than the usual few days to heal.

It was then that North really took stock of his immortal friends. They had all sustained some damage. Bunny, with his knee injury, was probably the worst off. Tooth, looked a little sore about the wings, but for her and North exhaustion was likely the worst of it. Sandy was looking awfully tired, and not in the sleepy way – had he been fighting Pitch's darkness all along? Dare he ask?

It was one of those rare situations which required genuine rest and relaxation to recuperate. It was usually reserved as a mortal need, but the Man in the Moon had made it clear to each Guardian that they and the other spirits that kept the world in balance were immortal – never aging – but they were not eternal. North had learned the hard way years ago that there was a distinct difference. Sleep was needed when they overexerted themselves. Food sustained their living bodies on a semi-regular basis (though North couldn't imagine eating only sometimes.)

Rest and food. That's what they needed, and they would have it here at the Pole, in safety and warmth and company. With the beliefs of the children renewed, they could rest for a day without risking their guardianship, he was certain.

A quick glance proved that Jack was not with them. Confused, North looked back to see Jack was still curled up in the corner of the sleigh. He smiled softly and backtracked. The boy must have been truly exhausted to have slept through the rickety landing and North's booming voice.

"Jack," he called softly. He nudged the sprite's shoulder, who stirred and sucked in a waking breath through his nose. "Come inside."

"Hm?"

North stood and held out his hand. Jack looked about dumbly for a moment, but blinked and took the offered help. North wondered how many times the young man had slept in his 300 years of immortality – a handful, maybe? There would be much to teach the new Guardian about his very existence.

"M'awake," he sighed at length, dragging himself to his feet. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Is fine, Jack," North chuckled, patting the young man on the shoulder. Jack yelped and side-stepped away from North's firm hand, looking wobbly on his feet.

"Jack, what is wrong?" North asked, his concern deep and instant.

"I dunno… Nothing," he corrected himself, meeting North's eyes with a tired, lop-sided grin. "I just feel funny; probably not used to being believed in."

North hurt for Jack and was overjoyed for him at the same time. Hurt that Jack had been alone and unbelieved for so long, but overjoyed that he was now a Guardian with a small clutch of children to believe in him. And that was just to start. Children had an amazing way of sharing their beliefs with other children. It wouldn't be long before Jack had so much energy he wouldn't know what to do with it; it was just the transition that was challenging.

So the elder Guardian smiled reassuringly at the younger, gesturing to the door into the fortress. "Come inside, Jack. Some food, rest, and company will help you feel better." The smile he received was so wide and genuine and blinding that it gave him a small thrill. The trouble maker of their spirit world had grown so much in just a few days.

Jack walked into the fortress with North close in toe. Large lounge chairs were set before the fire in the Globe Room, courtesy of a few yetis. The cushy furniture was set so that the warmth of the fire could be enjoyed, but the globe with all its twinkling lights could be viewed just as easily. North had to toe a few elves out of his footpath, but he made it to a chair across the rug from Tooth and Sandy and flopped unceremoniously into it.

Bunny had already laid out on the floor in front of the fire, stretching out his sore leg behind him while the rest of him was curled into a very rabbit-like posture. His arms were folded neatly beneath him as he soaked up the heat of the fire – he was practically lying in the outer coals, for Moon's sake. He was watching Sandy with a soft grin as the golden man gave a picturesque account of his time away from the Guardians.

The Sandman had opted to stay floating in his cloud of sand – and far be it from St. Nick to make the older man sit in a chair; he had been surrounded by twisted black sands for days. North didn't know how much of the story would end up being true or a product of Sandy's wild imagination, but the eldest Guardian was remarkable at keeping his experience in the shadows lighthearted. North could see his eyelids drooping though; if he weren't the one "talking" he would already be sleeping.

Tooth had settled in the chair next to Sandy. Her wings probably needed a rest, to be sure. She cradled an armful of mini fairies while she watched Sandy's story. She and Bunny were having a good time trying to guess what the Sandman was trying to convey, and for once there wasn't a smidge of frustration on Sandy's golden face at the wrong guesses. It quickly spiraled into a game of guess-the-good-dreams-Pitch-got-bombarded-with, and made for a lot of laughs.

Jack settled furthest from the fire, his mind seemingly elsewhere. The young sprite would smile and put in a good guess here and there, earning hearty laughs from the others; but he seemed much more interested in watching the globe and its lights. As the cocoa was being delivered by yetis it quieted down a bit, each Guardian enjoying the warm vapors and sweet taste of North's perfected drink. Jack took his mug carefully, placing his fingertips on the bottom of the mug. Instantly, the heated vapors were gone, and somehow North knew that the cocoa had gone stone cold. In the comfortable silence, Jack kept his eyes on the lights of the believing children. Bunny must have noticed Jack's divided attention too, because he spoke up in the midst of the quiet banter.

"Feels different, doesn't it, Jack?"

A moment of silence followed, but Jack turned his attention to his new friends with a warm smile. "He figured it out," he said reverently. "Jamie figured it out on his own. About me, I mean." They were all smiling, and Tooth spoke up first.

"He's a very special boy, Jack, but he didn't figure it out by himself. You helped him find you."

"Yeah," Bunny agreed, holding his mug close between his paws. "You did something to make him believe. What was it?"

With a wide smile and a laugh, Jack flitted up from his chair, handing his mug to North as he passed over his head – yep, lukewarm at best (though it was probably very warm to Jack). Halfway to one of the windows behind the fireplace, Jack landed clumsily on his feet and walked to the glass panes. With a touch the glass was covered in delicate swirls of frost.

"I didn't know I could do this," Jack tossed over his shoulder as he stuck his finger in the frost and started to draw, "but Jamie was so desperate to believe in you, Bunny. I had to do something." As he finished his scribble, he moved his hands as if to pull the image from the window. It took some concentration, but Jack's magic really came to life. A pale, iridescent blue bunny rabbit formed away from the glass and hopped about, cutting a trail of iced vapor with every hop. Bunny sat up and perked his ears forward to watch the conjured image, fascinated eyes and a light laugh conveying his delighted impression. The blue bunny danced about the Guardians' heads, then puffed into a cloud of light snow.

"Jack, that was amazing!" Tooth praised. Sandy clapped his hands in delight, and Bunny gave a hearty "well done, mate!" while North guffawed, tittering into the high tones of a laugh full of wonder. The new Guardian bowed dramatically, but teetered when he stood. The smile was still on his face, though, and he walked back to his seat with a delighted expression. North chalked up his lack of balance to battle fatigue.

"When Jamie saw the snow, he started saying my name," Jack concluded.

"You sustained his belief in all of us," said North, passing the cocoa back to him as he went to reseat himself. "You saved us, Jack."

Jack smiled, leaning his staff on the arm of the chair, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Had to make up for my mistakes somehow."

"And so do we," North replied softly. The other Guardians nodded their agreement. They hadn't neglected Jack so much as misunderstood him and left him alone by default. They were not perfect by any means, and they had all made mistakes, whether they meant to or not. "But we have plenty of time for that later."

There was hearty agreement, and the Guardians gladly accepted the food that was offered them, and the refills of hot chocolate for several hours, all from the comfort of their seats. North enjoyed his snack of cookies wholeheartedly, and fought his own heavy eyelids while a few others – namely Sandy and Jack – fell in and out of a light doze.

It was strange, to not want to leave each other's company. Normally, they were all so busy with their respective tasks that social gatherings were kept to a minimum. But after everything – thinking Sandy dead; gaining, losing, and regaining Jack's help; Tooth's lost fairies; Bunnymund's degeneration; and most importantly the threat against the world's children – it all mussed together into a jumble of unsortable emotions that made the Guardians need each other in a way they hadn't for centuries. North had missed this close comradeship, last experienced in much simpler eras. He didn't want to lose it again, especially not with a new Guardian on board – not ever, if Pitch could so easily work under their radars the way he had.

It was time for them to stick together as a team without letting time grow them apart. It was time to be a family again.

With his mind settled on the matter, North tendered a great yawn and rose to his feet.

"Come," he said, "it is late enough for good naps in warm beds." There was a general murmur of agreement as they rose. Yetis were waiting, leading them through the workshops and into a large hallway. Each yeti then escorted a Guardian to a guest room. North followed Jack and the yeti he had called Phil. (The name had stuck, much to the furry creature's annoyance.)

The guest rooms weren't fancy (for North's tastes), but they were generous enough on short notice. Phil opened the door and stood aside. Jack turned in a circle to get a good look at the room – well lit, but out of the afternoon's direct sunlight – and eyed the bed in the corner uncertainly. It was garnered only in thin sheets, and North was pleased to see that this was the guest room with the largest window sill. There were even a few of his ice blocks from the design room piled in the corner. Phil garbled lightly, traipsing over to the sill and patting a large hand on the cushioned seating while he watched Jack.

The new Guardian smiled and walked over. "Good thinking, North," he said over his shoulder.

"Is Phil's idea," he admitted, and Phil nodded with a twinkle in his eye. "He thought you would be more comfortable there."

"I haven't slept in a bed in centuries; this is more my thing." The older man couldn't help but smile as Jack patted the cushioned sill appreciatively.

"There are extra pillows under the seat, if you want them."

Jack was suddenly looking at the floor with a sigh, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand. North watched him for a moment. His concern was flooding back again; Jack hadn't seemed quite right since they had left the children of Burgess.

"What is it?" He wanted to touch Jack's shoulder, let him know he wasn't alone, but he was intimidated by the reaction he had gotten earlier. The winter sprite met his eyes with a wide open expression that made his heart skip, thinking maybe he wasn't happy. Jack looked away almost instantly, letting out a gasping chuckle – the type you heard from someone right before they burst into tears.

"I finally have everything I was hoping for," Jack said quietly. He rubbed his forehead again. "I don't know how to handle it. Just a handful of believing kids makes me…" He was struggling for words. North patted his back carefully, but it still earned him a jolt from the boy.

"Jack, you have gone through many changes in just a few days. There is much to get used to, and even good changes can be stressful. Being Guardian is big job; you don't have to bear that burden alone."

Jack smiled up at him appreciatively, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks," he managed, and turned his gaze back to the sill. "I haven't slept since the Arizona snowstorm in '85."

"Ha!" North guffawed. "That was good one! Short lived, but good."

Jack chuckled along, and when the mirth settled North bid him a good rest. He and Phil left the room. North turned to close the door, glancing up just in time to see Jack settling carefully on the sill. A pale hand was wandering to his side as if he was hurting. North didn't hesitate in closing the door, lest he be caught watching, but that sting of concern was well and truly rooted in his heart now.

With exhaustion setting into his bones, he spared a prayer to MiM in hopes that Jack would feel better after he rested. He trudged down the hall to his own rarely-used chambers, looking forward to a long rest.


	2. Filigrees

**Quick note: these longish sections of italicized writing are snippets of Jack's recenlty aquired, slowly returning memories. It'll be that way for the duration of the story unless otherwise stated. **

* * *

"_Jackson, wait!" Elli was calling for him. He didn't stop to wait for her; not until he was at the edge of the woods, where no one else could see. He crouched down and leaned over, trying to prevent any blood from getting on his clothes, lest Ma wrap him one. At sixteen, he really shouldn't be getting wrapped by his mother – he was practically an adult. _

"_Hey, what's the matter with you?" Elli asked, sounding irritated. "You can't just run away in the middle of a game like that, the other boys will think you don't want to play."_

"_Sorry," Jackson managed with a sniff. He checked his hand, covered in blood. "I got a bloody nose somehow…"_

"_What?! Oh Jack… That's the third one since yesterday." Elli was instantly at his side, hands in his face trying to see the damage. He swatted her hands away with his clean palm._

"_No, no, I don't think so." That was a lie; he knew how to count. "Back up, Ma will have our heads if I get blood on your clothes." He closed his eyes to ward off the sudden dizziness, tried to catch his breath._

"_Jackson, you look green," Elli breathed._

"_I'm fine; I just need to stop the bleeding." He coughed. Blood in his throat, that was all. The blood flowing from his nose staunched as suddenly as it had started, and Jackson sniffed mightily to make sure it was done. He wiped off his face with his hands, then wiped the blood away on the grass as best he could. They'd have to find the creek on the way back so he could wash. "Ok, let's go home," he finally said. He stood and swayed. He'd never been this dizzy from a bloody nose before, and he'd had plenty of them – but they always happened for good, adventure related reasons. _

_They trekked home, just in time for dinner. Elli was a good girl and ate her whole meal, which was saying something since she usually ate like a bird. Jackson took one look at Ma's wonderful cooking, and couldn't stomach the thought of eating it, which was also saying something since he usually ate like a horse. He poked at it, choked down a few bites._

"_What's wrong, son? Eat up! You're finally starting to get meat on your bones," said Pa. He was right, too; Jackson was certainly tall enough, and he was filling out nicely. Soon he would be able to herd the sheep with Pa all day. So he tried to eat more of his dinner, he really did._

_Ultimately he began dozing right there at the table. Pa dismissed him with a disapproving frown for his behavior. Jackson mumbled an apology and went to the bed he shared with his sister without another word. He was asleep before he hit the pillow. _

_He didn't remember hearing Elli come to bed, but he felt her (or was it Ma?) sitting him up with whispered demands. He barely kept his eyes open long enough to change into proper bed clothes. He was just settling back down when he heard a loud knock at the door. It must have been late, because Pa took a moment to robe himself and answer the call._

"_John! By God…" It was the blacksmith, and he sounded frantic. Jackson sat up to listen, feeling dizzy at the movement. He was freezing… _

"_James, what's the matter?" Pa asked, closing the door to keep out the midsummer insects._

"_My son is sick with fever, four others have fallen ill tonight. Are your children alright?"_

"_Yes, they're fine," Pa said, sounding bewildered. "What ails your boy?"_

"_I don't know… It looks like typhoid has fallen upon Burgess."_

_Pa cursed quietly, immediately praying to God that it wasn't so. Jackson's heart pounded slowly against his ribs. He had a feeling he knew which children were sick – they had been exploring a few days ago and the well by the old man's hill was the quickest water source… The old man had died in solitude last year; perhaps the well was cursed or spoiled. Despite his quickening breath, he leapt from the bed, leaving the tiny room to go to his father. He trembled, stumbled at the doorway, and when he couldn't find his feet again, words left his mouth without his consent._

"_Pa, wait…" He felt funny. His limbs were too heavy, and the floor came up to meet him. He hit the wood planks hard, jolting him and sending shooting pain through his gut. He heard shouting, wanted to apologize for leaving bed so late, for feeling sick. He felt warmth flowing over his upper lip, and knew his nose was bleeding again. At this rate he would ruin his nightgown before he could see straight._

_Dizziness struck him again as large hands rolled him onto his back. He felt Pa's strong arms under him, cradling his body as if he were still a little boy. The voices around him sounded upset; he hated that noise. He was being carried the next moment. He heard Elli crying, and he heard Ma's frantic voice. He wanted to tell them he was fine, that everything would be ok. He wanted to lie and tell them he hadn't drunk water from the spoiled well. He wanted everything to be right again._

_But Jackson was terrified. There was a dread deep in his aching belly. He was in real trouble._

Jack woke with such a jolt he nearly flung himself off the sill. He gasped for breath, eyes darting about to establish his surroundings. The next moment brought pain crashing down on him. That was the moment he truly woke up, feeling his mind jimmy back to the present.

He doubled over on himself, clutching at his chest while his lungs apparently tried to _eat_ themselves. His side burst with heat next, making him feel nauseous – a sensation he only recalled from memories recently found. Holy Moon, if getting used to being believed in felt like being ripped apart, he wanted nothing to do with it!

No… No, he couldn't blame the children. Something was wrong. Really, _really_ wrong.

He needed help. He needed to tell someone… he didn't know what he would tell them, but he still needed to tell them. If he could only manage to uncurl himself. With the pulsating pain no closer to subsiding, he gasped in a ragged breath and forced himself to lean back against the sill wall.

_Somebody… Help me._

* * *

Bunny would always appreciate North's experience in catering to the needs of others. North loved having guests, and his elves were top notch at preparing guest rooms. Take Bunnymund's impromptu quarters, for example:

A corner of the room was heaped with a pile of soft, fleecy blankets deep enough to burrow into and disappear into the darkest, warmest, most secure hideaway you'd ever find and never hit bottom. The nest had been a snarky request over a hundred years ago as a half-joke. Bunny had been grateful that it was remembered.

So here he lay, contentedly dozing, weaving in and out of consciousness lazy as you please. Imagine his surprise, then, when a sudden weight fell upon his makeshift burrow with just enough force to jolt him awake. He was instantly peeved. What did a Guardian have to do to get some proper rest around here, anyway?

With a sigh that was a little impeded by the weight atop him, Bunny dug his way through the blankets to the surface. He promptly yelped and re-burrowed. And then he was downright pissed.

Snow covered his nest in a thick drift. It had materialized so quickly he had literally felt the weight shift – like a bucket of water being thrown down from above. He growled at the unwelcomed intrusion, and the nippy chill that began to permeate the warmth.

"Frost!" he yelled as he resurfaced. Prepared as he was to kick some frosty tail, Jack was not in his room. Had he pulled his prank from the other side of the door? Muttering profanities under his breath, the Pooka hopped out of his bed and opened the door. No Jack in the hallway. Suddenly that didn't matter, though.

Something smelled wrong. Nose going and ears dancing, Bunny sat perfectly still on his haunches to analyze his senses. The air was electrified and bitingly cold. His breath clung before him in clouds of fog. Over the centuries he had tried describing the smell of danger and fear, and had yet to do an accurate job so the others would understand it.

He smelled it now. Sharp and acrid and acidic enough to sting his twitching nose as if he were inhaling vinegar fumes. It sent a dagger of concern slicing into his chest. For no reason at all, he recalled how Jack had seemed a little bit off since they had left the children in the early morning. The door across from his whistled as a stiff breeze tried to squeeze through space at the bottom. Snow drifted into the hallway from underneath it. The fur on Bunny's scruff stood on end as he caught the smells and sounds from beyond.

Without much thought, he limped across the hall and knocked on the door.

"Jack?" he called quietly. When there was no answer he palmed the door handle, wincing at the frigid feel of the metal. "I'm coming in, mate." The door opened easily enough. There was no wind to contend with at the moment, though the floor was covered in a light dusting of snow that sent a chill through his paw pads.

Jack was sitting at the overlarge window sill. At first, Bunny couldn't see anything immediately wrong, but his ears and nose had already told him differently. Jack's breathing didn't sound right. The new Guardian looked up with clouded eyes and tried to smile. It didn't work.

"Bunny," he managed. The tone conveyed a very clear hint of 'thank MiM you're here,'. But his expression and body language screamed of serious pain. And then Jack was folding in on himself.

"Easy kid," Bunny quipped, hopping over. He ignored the horrible twinge in his knee. "What's the matter? You look green."

Jack's face screwed up as if he had just heard terrible news. "Oh no," he breathed, looking away out the window. "Not again. Not that again, it's not possible…"

"Take it easy," Bunny hushed even as his hackles were rising. He was not good at controlling panic – his or anyone else's. His heart hammered against his ribcage at seeing the newest Guardian in such distress. "Are you hurt? Tell me what's wrong."

Bunny sat on the wide sill; his knee wouldn't tolerate his weight anymore. He placed a paw on Jack's shoulder to ground the boy. "Jack," he said firmly, garnering a (slightly) clearer gaze from him, "talk to me."

"I don't know," he finally answered. He cut back on a grunt of pain. "Feels like something's… in my chest."

Bunny caught the words. Even more so, he caught the lightest scent on Jack's breath: not unlike tar and burning plastic that clung in still winter air. The last time he'd smelled that… He turned his face away with a curse on his lips, ears falling back as anger boiled deep in his gut. Memories from Bunny's early Guardianship threatened to bloom from a dark corner of his mind. But he had to collect himself quickly.

"Ok, mate. Ok," he soothed. He brushed a paw over Jack's forehead, pushing wild white locks out of the boy's face and feeling for his temperature at the same time. He was still cool to the touch, but admittedly not as cold as he should have been. "How long have you been hurting?"

"My staff..."

Bunny finally noticed that Jack's staff was not in his hands. It was in the opposite corner of the window seat. Had the snow drift in his room been conjured without it…? Bunny shook his head, bringing himself back to the matter at hand.

"It's safe. It's right here. See?" Bunny reassured. He was feeling pressed for time, and for good reason. It took a lot for an immortal to succumb to pain like this unless it was of a specific nature: magic or darkness. He needed to know; right now! "But Jack, you need to tell me how long you've had pain. Can you do that? Focus for a minute." He grasped Jack's chin lightly in his paw.

"No, my staff," Jack repeated with a huff. Bunny nearly snapped back, but the boy took a shuddering breath and cinched his brow as if he was concentrating hard on his words. "Pitch broke it. Yesterday, before Jamie. Since then."

Bunny froze. All he could do was stare for a moment.

"Pitch broke your staff?"

Jack nodded. The rabbit felt ice in his veins. He didn't know much about that stupid magic stick, other than it was Jack's conduit. Over 300 years, he'd never seen the boy without it, and the few times it wasn't in his hands he was little more than a season sprite. All the power and strength Jack wielded came from within, but without the shepherd's hook it was stuck.

One small problem, too: the staff was whole. So what did Pitch do, drain it of its conductiveness somehow?

"What d'you mean he broke your staff?" Bunny found himself snipping. "It's right here."

"I fixed it."

Cue more staring. Bunny's nose twitched while he took it all in. Regardless of what really happened, Jack had lost his staff and then restored it at some point in the last twenty-four hours. The implications of such a thing were endless and complicated. So, he got into a fight with Pitch _before_ their fight with Pitch. Bunny's dread dug deeper into his chest.

"You fought Pitch alone?"

Jack nodded "He took Baby Tooth. Had to get her back…"

Guilt made Bunny's heart clench; anger made his skin crawl; new fear for Jack made him jittery. He placed a hand gently on Jack's shoulder, looking directly into eyes clouded with pain and shadows of things he didn't yet understand.

"Where did he hit you, Jack?"

Jack held his eyes for a moment, unsure. But then he moved his hand to hover over his left side. His trembling fingers didn't touch the area, but it was indicative enough. Bunny brushed his pale hand away and lifted the hem of his sweatshirt.

The warrior clapped a paw over his mouth halfway through a defeated groan. Bruising had spread a stain beneath Jack's pale skin, coloring him deep hues of purple from the bottom of his ribcage to his hip, wrapping around the side to his flank. The skin didn't appear damaged or broken, and there was no seeping blood or open wound; it was all internal.

But what made the great Guardian of Hope feel sickly worried were the trails of inky darkness that etched swirls and filigrees beneath the skin. They shifted and changed in an ethereal, almost unnoticeable way, curling claws of smoky shadow beyond the bruising to mar the pristine flesh. Jack's near-transparent skin gave the twisted patterns a milky look, trapped in his body with no way out, like poison of the most sinister nature.

Bunny had to hold his breath to keep back the urge to throw up. His memories – vivid telling's of a dark time long past – swarmed him in panic, nausea, pain, darkness, and anger. The anger… _Rage_, that was new. It was rage that this new situation, so familiar to the Pooka was happening right before his eyes, and he couldn't do a bloody thing about it. But he knew who could.

He took a deep breath to collect himself, putting Jack's sweatshirt carefully back into place.

"Ok, mate, uh… Sit tight a minute, yeah? I'll be back in a flash."

He didn't stick around to hear if there were any protests, and sprinted out of Jack's room and down the hallway without regard to himself.

"Sandy!" he bellowed, jumping at the Sandman's guest door and kicking with all four paws. The resounding bang probably woke half of Santoff Claussen. Bunny didn't wait for a response, yelling over his shoulder, "Get up! We got trouble!"

He raced on in a panicked fog, following North's most recent scent trail with wildly twitching nose. The large, holly red door at the far end of the wing (closest to the kitchen, judging by the strong cookie smell) doubtless belonged to the Wonder Spirit. Bunny bellowed for him before he reached the door and jumped, launching off the wood paneling with a rattling bang. He tumbled when he landed, his knee giving out with an agonizing pop. He rolled onto his back and stayed there, grunting and huffing and panting, full of panic and adrenaline.

North was towering over him seconds later, brandishing his swords and looking tired and unsure.

"Put those away," Bunny growled. "Jack's room. Now."

North seemed frozen for a moment before a string of angry Russian poured from his mouth. His swords clattered to the floor, carelessly tossed, and his boots thundered down the hall.

Bunny waited for a moment before he rolled onto his side and proceeded to toss his carrots. When he was done he shifted away from the mess and tried to catch his breath. What he'd seen on Jack… He didn't want to believe it. He knew what was coming, knew what the youngest guardian was going to go through, and it made him sick.

Bunny's shoulder burned at the surfacing of memories he had buried long ago. He had been such a small Pooka when it happened; a Guardian less than 50 years at the time. So starry-eyed, so naïve despite his long years… He just needed a minute now to curl up and remember, be scared and panicked and pathetic and 100% rabbit. After that, he would –

He startled when soft, small fingers brushed against the scruff of his neck. Tooth was shushing him the next second, combing her fingers through his fur. He pressed his forehead against the cool stone floor, soothed by her familiar presence. And bless the fairy, because she gave him a few minutes to just be a shivering, pathetic ball of fuzz and trauma.

"Bunny," she said after a sufficient time, "what's happening?" Her voice was soft and gentle in his ringing ears. It made him want to answer her rather than curl in on himself.

"It's Jack," he replied, only half-conscious of his paw roaming to his aching shoulder. "Pitch got to him after we chased him off." He dug his claws into the scarring that hid beneath his fur, furious at himself for not having seen the signs. Tooth gasped not at his words, but at his movement, cupping his paw in both of her hands and lifting it away from his shoulder. For she knew his history intimately; knew what such a gesture meant to him. She touched his shoulder gently, but he could tell her fingers were unsure. His voice cracked on his next words, more than enough to shatter the peace of Santoff Claussen despite the quiet tone.

"Jack's been shadowed."

* * *

**Tada! I like this chapter muchly. I think (hope) Bunny wrote himself out very well. As a side note, there has been a lot of debate on the name of Jack's sister. I hesitate to call her Pippa because of the way Pippa/Jack's sister is listed in the credits at the end of the film. Also, it's a fanfic, so I chose to name her Elli, and that is that. Yar! **

**Thank you thank you thank you to my reviewers: RadicalCat, DragonsFalme117, RainyDayinAstrasia, Galimatias, and Avatar Aang. You guys rock, I'm so glad you liked the first chapter! And, of course, thank you to all who favorited, followed, and everybody who took the time to read my stuff in the first place. You rock my world, and i'm so glad I coud augment your leisure time with this little ditty. I hope you all enjoyed, and the next installment will be up soon!**

**~mjb**


	3. Wild Darkness

**Quick note: Translated Sandy-speak is italicized and in parentheses.**

* * *

Tooth was happy to comb her fingers through Bunny's fur for as long as he needed. To her mild surprise, though, he allowed himself only a few minutes to recover before he was pushing himself off the floor. Tooth urged him to take a little more time, but he shook her off with a quiet growl that made her edgy.

"Gotta talk to the others," he muttered. But upon shifting his weight to his legs he shouted and met the floor again. Stubborn Pooka warriors and their aptitude for ignoring their own well-being…

"Bunny, you need to stop," Tooth said firmly. To her credit, he did pause his fugue to look at her hovering form. She nodded. "Now, let me help you."

He considered her proffered hand, and she silently swore she'd whack him with it if he refused. Luckily for him, he extended his paw for help, and Tooth was soon pulling his arm over her shoulders and hoisting him to stand. Her strong wings bore his leaning weight easily, and together they hop-step-hovered down the hallway to Jack's guest quarters.

Sandy was sitting beside Jack at the window sill. Tooth was immediately set at unease when she felt the chill in the room. There was something wrong with the snapping cold, with the thin layer of snow crunching beneath boot and paw. The cold seemed to bite more at her soul than it did her body.

Something in the energies was off.

And Jack looked terrible.

And Sandy looked worried.

"Bunny," North muttered with _that_ look. It was the authoritative look he touted on all of them when the group needed a leader. The tone said "_spill everything this instant_." This was the harried Cossak that no one wanted to cross. There was something else in his gaze, too – something heavily distraught and out of place, but Tooth didn't have much time to think on it.

"He's shadowed," Bunny growled, "left flank. No breaks in the skin."

Sandy lifted Jack's sweatshirt. A moment later his eyes grew wide and his hands flew to his mouth as if to hold in a startled yell. Or perhaps a curse. His sand flew in agitated coils about his crown, forming a clock and a question mark.

"Within the last twenty-four, after we cast him out," Bunny replied.

Sandy's shock morphed into a dangerous form of trepidation. Confusion and upset made an open scowl that held question as he glanced at each of the elder Guardians for explanation. But before anyone could push past the flash of shame they felt, he shook his head and waved his hand at them as if to say _I'll deal with you later._ That was probably true, too. For now, Tooth watched him focus on the newest Guardian, slouched against the cushions of his window seat. Sandy brushed his bangs out of the way with tiny, gentle fingers, garnering the boy's attention through fluttering eyelids.

"Sandy," Jack puffed through unsure breaths, "What's wrong with me?"

It was all Toothiana could do to keep quiet, to not _lie_ to the boy and tell him everything would be all right. She gripped Bunny's wrist tighter instead, keeping his weight firm on her shoulders as they watched the interaction. The other Guardians couldn't do much until Sandy gave them their tasks, depending solely on his wisdom of light and shadow, just as they had so many years ago.

The golden man smiled wanly and squeezed Jack's shoulder to reassure him. But Tooth could see that he was worried. His perfect mask of calm had slipped, and it scared her. Jack must have picked up on it, too. He shook his head with a half-hearted grin.

"Bad liar…" he gasped. He was grimacing the next moment, doubling over where he sat. Sandy and North pushed his shoulders back to keep him upright, pulling a short cry from him. Once he caught his breath, he asked, "Pitch did something, didn't he?"

Sandy sobered, looking forlorn and a little bit shaken. He squeezed Jack's shoulder again and nodded. Jack's head fell forward, and if it weren't for his frustrated growl to accompany it, Tooth would have thought he'd passed out, the movement floppy and uncoordinated. Sandy's gaze flicked between the other Guardians again. He focused on Tooth, giving her a nod so grim she paled a little.

She knew that gesture, knew the look in his eyes. He was calling on her language skills to help him, as he had done only twice before in their long centuries of comradeship. After all, she knew every language in the world, including the language of the deaf and the mute. Even as the affluent language of the hands changed from era to era, she knew all of its nuances.

Sandy never used it unless a Guardian was dying. Time was not on their side today.

"Go ahead," she whispered hoarsely. She found herself suddenly choking back tears. Sandy nodded with a glint of thankfulness in his honey eyes, and turned his full attention to Jack to address the boy directly. Jack's swimming gaze tracked the flurry of hand movements, brow creasing. Tooth watched him too. Her words soon trailed behind Sandy's flourishing gestures.

_(Jack, we need to get a better look at your injury. I think Pitch may have shadowed you.)_

"What does that mean?" Jack asked by way of interruption. The elder Guardian paused, looking unsure. It was Bunny who answered, drawing the attention and surprise of the room.

"When Pitch attacked you, he must have injected darkness into you. He's tried it on other Guardians; we call it shadowing."

"Oh boy… Ok…" Jack slurred, rubbing at his forehead. He leaned his head back against the wall and tightly cradled his midsection. "Uh, can we just take the nightmare sand out and call it good?"

Sandy shook his head, waving a hand for Bunny to continue.

"It's not nightmare sand, mate; that was his newest trick. We're talking about pure darkness – the kind light can't penetrate. What you've got there is a shadow wound with no real point of entry." There was a pause, and Tooth knew Bunny wasn't willing to divulge more information than he had to yet.

"What do we do, then?"

Sandy's hands began to fly again.

_(We must give your body a chance to fight off the darkness. Address your wounds. Get you comfortable in bed to rest for a while. Perhaps now that Pitch is sealed, his shadow technique will be weakened.)_

"You don't know?" Jack sounded a little panicked, but Tooth couldn't blame him. He looked so very uncomfortable. Sandy shook his head and kept signing.

_(I can give you good dreams to help the pain, Jack. But I hesitate to intervene unless we know you can't fight it on your own._ Sandy smiled weakly. _You're a Guardian, my boy. I believe you can crush these shadows like you crushed Pitch. If not, we are prepared to help you through it.)_

There was some hesitation, but Jack nodded. What else could he do, but trust them? So, with Sandy's help, North shooed Bunny and Tooth outside to get Jack settled in for the duration of the night.

"We will meet in the kitchen to discuss," the large man said just before closing the door.

The pair slowly migrated, silent in their concern. Tooth couldn't help but glance at Bunny's stern expression. For barely tolerating the winter child just a few days ago, he was taking the situation rather poorly. Tooth helped him navigate around and over the bustling elves, not oblivious to the change in the moods of the great Spirits, to sit on a chair in the small breakfast nook.

She left him alone long enough to get the help of a few elves in finding some ice and fresh tea towels. For as annoying as the little creatures could be – always getting under North and Bunny's feet, always trying to steal Sandy's eggnog, always chasing Tooth's minis – they were amazing cooks and mechanics. The kitchen and stables were the only places they were actually not murder-worthy targets. So, armed with two old-fashioned ice packs, she joined Bunny at the table.

Bunny stared out the window overlooking the vast ice cap outside, brow set into the lowest scowl Tooth had seen in decades, and ears flopped until they touched his neck. With a sigh, Tooth placed the ice on his knee, shocking him out of his reverie and earning an uncomfortable hiss. He was finally looking at her, at least, muttering a disenchanted thank you.

"I know this is serious," she said, settling in a chair across the small table. "But you're taking this worse than your own shadowing." The comment was blunt, and maybe a little too harsh, because Bunny actually flinched at the mention of his past experience.

"We agreed never to speak of it," he growled at her. _At_ her.

"I think now would be a good time to lift that request for Jack's sake," she hissed back. They both deflated instantly, feeling terrible for even trying to argue. Tooth was right and they both knew it; Bunny was upset and disturbed by all this, and they both knew it. With a sigh, she placed the second ice pack on her shoulder. Baby Tooth was suddenly there, looking ruffled and tired along with three of her sisters. They must have just woken up, because their thoughts hadn't been floating through Tooth's head until they were there with her in the kitchen. They didn't hesitate to place the ice properly upon her sore wing joints, then settled about – two on the table, Baby Tooth on her shoulder, the last timidly perching on Bunny's wrist (brave little fairy!).

"I'm sorry, Tooth," Bunny said at length. "It's not you I'm mad at."

She tilted her head. He was mad at someone? Certainly not Jack; none of this was the boy's fault.

"Bunny, what's wrong?" she prompted when he said nothing more. Green eyes flicked to the large kitchen door before settling on her, scowl still firmly in place.

"Did you see North?" he asked lowly. "There was guilt plastered all over his ruddy face! He knew about this and he didn't even see fit to warn us." Stubborn Pooka warriors and their penchant for paranoid conclusion-jumping…

"Hold on a minute," Tooth replied. "Don't you think you're jumping to conclusions here? Why would North suspect something like shadowing and not say a word to Sandy? That's not like him at all."

"He may not have known it was shadowing, but he knew something was wrong. We've seen that look on him before."

Tooth thought back, remembering the heavily out-of-place glint in the Wonder Spirit's face when they had all been in Jack's room. Maybe Bunny was right…

"Even so," she said with a huff, "we should be focusing on Jack's well-being, not on who did or didn't do what."

Bunny leaned back heavily in his chair. He dislodged the mini fairy on his wrist when he raised his hand to rub at his eyes. He was exhausted. They all were, and probably would be for the near future. The persistent mini settled on his ice pack, walking about on it to settle it around the contours of his knee.

"Does it ever get tiring, always being right?" Bunny snarked gently at her.

"Never," she replied, feeling a tiny grin relieve some of her tension.

Bunny poked at the mini fairy appreciatively. "Do me a favor, little one?" he asked. When it chirped and nodded, he smiled. "Go to my guest room and fetch me my field pack, will ya?" The four fairies chirped and zoomed out of the room, just as the other Guardians entered. North still had that lead-heavy air about him, and Tooth considered Bunny's words again. He was muttering something about stubborn boys and sweatshirts without zippers.

She would have smiled at the mutterings if Sandy didn't looked downright pissed. Tooth instantly felt dread chilling her heart. She watched the Sandman pick up the nearest piece of crockery – an empty mug – and hurl it across the room. She squeaked with the shock of the shattering ceramic and fleeing elves and covered her mouth, but she could not look away from the upset man.

Sandy floated in a pacing pattern near the kitchen island with a look so distressed, so helplessly angry, it made her want to cry at the sight. What was going on? Why was he inconsolable? Sandy plunked himself on the countertop and leaned forward, running his fingers through his wild hair.

They waited, silent as the Sandman's very nature, as he collected himself and took a moment to just breathe. When he looked up, Tooth lifted her chin, trying to be strong like she knew she should be – knew he needed her to be.

_Not a word,_ he signed to her, looking grim. His movements were sharp with distress. She kept her mouth shut. _I need to say this before we continue: I'm terrified. I'm terrified, Tooth, and I dread having to do this again. There's no real wound by which the shadows were introduced. MiM help us... We'll have to make one to draw them out._ He ran his hands through his hair before continuing._ I can't harm the boy like that, what if I scar him forever?_

Was it so bad already? Her heart ached for Jack, and her plummage ruffled at the distant memories she had noped never to relive. But in order to help their newest Guardian, the Sandman had to keep himself together. The group would have time to let the trauma sink in later. Tooth thought hard for a moment, not daring to look at the others' expectant faces. Instead, she raised her hands and commenced signing for the first time in decades, feeling slow and clumsy. She raised her brow line in sympathy as she said:

_You probably will, but we need to trust in Jack's resilience, Sanderson. He may be a boy, but he is also a centuries-old spirit chosen by MiM. Just once more, old friend, for the sake of MiM's will. You know I'm at your service anytime you need me, but right now, we must be brave._

Sandy let out a great sigh, the rush of air nearly audible in its capacity. He lifted his fingers to his chin and brought them down in a humble _Thank you_. The other men had remained blessedly silent, probably feeling that whatever was being said was being said for a reason. With a nod from him and a raise of his hands, Tooth began translating again. They didn't have time for picture games.

_(You were right, Bunny. Jack has been shadowed. But the shadows are coiling independent from any outside influence. Do you know how this happened?)_

"Not precisely," the Pooka replied. "But I do know that sometime between his leaving and saving Jamie's belief, he and Pitch had it out. He told me he had to save Baby Tooth, and that Pitch broke his staff but he fixed it. I don't know what that means."

Baby Tooth was instantly squeaking, buzzing about Tooth's head until she offered her palm for the little one to perch. As her sisters delivered Bunny's pack to him, she held her tiny hands before her, looking sick with worry, and chirped urgently. Tooth was grateful for her telepathic link to her little army, for as Baby told her story the images of her memory came across crystal clear to her queen – a deep connection that was rarely used, and rarely needed.

Tooth saw through Baby Tooth's eyes as she pleaded to Jack across the frozen Antarctic winds, begged him not to give in, to just leave her and help the others because it _wasn't_ his fault and Mama was in trouble and they needed him! Felt the crushing pressure against her chest, her arms, her wings. Couldn't breathe enough to beg him with her words, not that he'd understand anyway, and so resorted to begging with her ugly, ugly eyes to just go. Just go.

But he was twirling his staff and bowing his head and no no _no_ don't give in! Pitch had the shepherd's crook now and freedom was so close and she felt so _bad _for wanting it. And Pitch said no, and she cried indignantly and how could he be so _mean?!_ And he threatened. He wanted Jack to be alone forever, and if there was one thing she learned from her imprisonment in the folds of the dark king's robes, it was that he knew _every_ fear of _everyone_ and he was being so _cruel_ and she wouldn't have it! So she jabbed him as hard as her little neck muscles would jab and he _squeaked_ and that was very satisfying. But then he threw her. Threw her so hard her weakened and crushed wings couldn't help her and she hit something and everything was black.

When she could breathe again, she barely noticed a pained cry. She looked toward the light, and Jack was plummeting down, down, _down_ into the ravine with her. She flinched when he hit the bottom hard enough she felt it and she wanted to go to him, wanted to cry out and see that he was ok. Something else was plummeting down, and the precious staff landed at the bottom with them and yet so very far. It was so very cold, and despite wanting so _badly_ to help Jack, she could only curl up against the chill ice beneath her and _mourn_: The children, the children, the _children._

Toothiana jolted herself out of the recollection. Breathing hard, tears streaking down her cheeks, she looked at Baby Tooth and whispered,

"Oh, poor Baby. I didn't know. I didn't know…"

Baby Tooth squeaked her urgency again. _Tell the others! Tell tell tell!_

So with a shaky breath, she tried to collect herself and tell them everything she knew.

* * *

They stared at her. How could they not? Tooth wiped the tears from her cheeks and sniffed. "I didn't know…" she was saying again. She looked at the tiny fairy in her hand sadly. "We need to talk about you and your pretty, _pretty _eyes, young lady…"

Sandy tried to envision the whole scenario, and just couldn't fathom it. It wasn't possible… Jack's conduit, the string to his very core, had been broken like a match stick because he had _let_ it. He had let it happen for the sake of a tiny fairy who, without belief restored to her queen, would have ceased to exist anyway.

More than that, Jack had fixed his conduit after that. _Fixed_. It had been in pieces. Broken from him. No longer part and parcel to the spirit. And he had put it back together. He had restrung the string that led to his core. He had restored his own energies. He had…

If the Sandman thought on it too long, his head might just pop.

This was unheard of.

But beyond the shock of the event, Sandy could see it. He could see where Pitch may have shadowed the boy, and that was what he cared about now. If what he figured was true, then the darkness was far more foreboding than what he had previously hoped. In this instance, the undesirable outcome was looking like the only way to save the boy. But in the midst of it all he felt… relief, more than anything. Yes, relief that if this elemental boy could be chosen by MiM, could fix his own conduit without the assistance of others, then perhaps the shadows were not so big a threat. He wasn't ready to believe that with his whole heart, but it gave him enough hope to think on the less desirable possibilities without wanting to be violently ill. That was a start.

"I'm never threatening to take away that bloody stick again…" Bunny finally muttered.

"No joke," North grumbled.

Sandy shook his head, trying to bring them back to their chief concern and raised his hands again. How he wished he could use his pictured thoughts as always, however small the comfort.

_(He is shadowed regardless,)_ Tooth translated, (_but I think I know where it may have occurred, and it concerns me. The only opportunity outside of our reunion with him is just before the prime of Pitch's power. The shadows were strong then – strong enough to withstand his defeat and concealment. My friends, I don't think the darkness in Jack is being manipulated anymore. It still resides, and if it's on its own, that means it's wild darkness._

"Wild darkness? What does that mean?" North questioned. Of course, he was the youngling of the Guardians before Jack came along. He had risen to Guardianship just after Bunny had begun his recovery from the shadows. Sandy was ready to explain, but Bunny cut in.

"Pitch has a habit of playing with things he can't control." He had been writing a note, Sandy noticed, and was rolling it into a tiny scroll. "Darkness is his element, but it's also independent of him, like Frost's element can be independent of him." He tapped an egg lightly. The tribal blue bobbin sprouted its tiny legs and stood patiently while he tied the note to its middle. "Now that he's weak and sealed away," he paused to tap the floor, and dropped his egglet soldier into the magic tunnel. "He can't control the darkness he put in the little bugger." He closed the portal and slumped on his elbows against the table. "It's running wild inside his body and making him sick." Bunny scrubbed at the ridge of fur that ran along the back of his head, scratched at it with an agitated growl.

"But he can still fight the shadows, yes?" North replied. Bunny snorted, looking grim.

"Mate, if I told you to defend yourself against a newborn pup and then stuck you in the middle of a pack of rabid wolves, what would you say? If the darkness really is running rampant, there's no way to avoid having to purify him."

A low string of Russian left North's mouth and made Tooth blush. Bunny's analogy had been spot on, though, and it saddened Sandy greatly to have to agree to it.

_(Bunny is right,)_ Tooth continued, and she sounded as defeated as he felt. (_I wish I could say Jack might take care of it himself, but it just isn't the case. The most likely path involves our direct intervention. We should be prepared for it when morning comes.)_

Bunny muttered something too quietly for the others to hear, rubbing his face vigorously with his paws. His low-set ears, rising hackles, and radiating negativity spoke volumes to his experience. The room was uncomfortably silent in the face of this truth.

"What do we do?" North asked. Tooth waited patiently while Sandy thought everything through.

_(We need to prepare a clean room for tomorrow. Tooth, Aster, Nick, please take shifts watching our new comrade. We have to ensure that he rests – he'll need all his strength. I must rest as much as possible to prepare for the purification. Aster, you know the supplies we need.)_

Bunny nodded without looking away from his window. "Already on it," he mumbled, making a loose gesture toward the floor, where his portal had been.

Sandy reached into his lapel, then, handing a vial of golden sand to North. This needed no explanation; North was vividly aware of the pain Jack had been experiencing as they put him to bed. Sandy nodded, feeling drained and world-weary. As he left the others to their tasks, he heard Tooth saying quietly,

"Don't look at me like that, he _spelled out_ our names. I was just translating…"

He left it be. It may have been worthy of a chuckle if he wasn't feeling so sullen and deeply enraged by Pitch's ceaseless efforts to bring harm to the Guardians. Centuries ago, Sandy had sworn Bunny would be the last victim of wild darkness. He had failed that oath. Regardless of how well Jack faired through this trial, one thing was certain: Sanderson Mansnoozie would be paying Pitch a visit when the time came, and he would make good on his oath. Permanently.

* * *

_How could he feel so much and know so little?_

_Images swam before him in sickening shifts of colors like melting candle wax He couldn't make sense of what he saw, and so he closed his eyes. Opening his eyes scared him senseless, so afraid was he of what he would see. Was it real? Was it the devil playing tricks? _

_What demon had seen fit to strike him and his friends with typhoid, for this was surely a piece of hell!_

_Jackson felt rather than heard himself moan in pain. His voice was sore from utterances he couldn't remember giving. Ice-cold wetness pressed against his forehead, his face, his chest. It dragged another moan out of him and left him exhausted and breathless. His skin crawled and shivered and burned wherever it was touched. Could nothing relieve the agony in his veins? He was so thirsty, but the thought of water made him feel sick. God help him. God help him. God have mercy. If finding his next breath was so hard, why wasn't he in heaven yet?_

_He wasn't supposed to know anything. He was supposed to… He didn't know what. But he didn't want to _feel_ anymore. He wanted this clarity to end, to let him sink back into the black, twisted abyss of nonsense dreams he would never remember. How long had he been floating through this forsaken haze?_

_Something pressed into his abdomen, and he _knew for certain_ that he screamed with all his might. The heated agony racing through his gut was a torturous, tearing dagger that sent black spots through the already black vision behind closed eyes. Soft, warm hands were on his shoulders. He knew that touch so well it was instinct: Mother. Ma was saying something, so muffled and far away he couldn't hear. Only knew it was her voice, her touch, and it did so little to comfort him that he felt guilty. _

_But a stranger's hands kept pressing his belly and he couldn't stand it. He tried to kick, tried to move and couldn't bring himself to make his muscles obey when even the air about him wouldn't agree to flood his lungs. Pressure on his chest now, and he couldn't breathe _at all_ with such pain pressing down on him. _

_But the darkness was coming. Deep and dismal and blessedly empty. He wanted this clarity to end, and hoped he wouldn't remember this moment – however brief – of knowing how he suffered. He wanted the darkness to come. Beckoned to it with all his heart to swallow him up so that, for just a little bit, he wouldn't suffer._

_Come on, he said to the abyss. Come, please, take me away._

Jack woke with a body-jarring shock, gasping back on a fearful cry. Dizzy, disoriented and terrified, he tried to sit up, figure out where he was and why he was so disturbed by a memory that was so confusing it may as well be a weird dream. Searing pain made him pause, but the panic remained.

Huge, overwarm hands touched his bare shoulders and compounded the panic. But the hands were gentle and cajoling even though the movement blinded him with pain, and he was coaxed upright and supported there. Deep, garbled sounds rumbled in his ears, and he recognized it. That was yeti language. In an instant he knew he was at the Pole, he was safe, and he was over 300 years beyond that awful memory.

So why was he shaking?

While Jack's vision slowly cleared, he became aware of Phil, asking concerned questions close enough to share his yeti breath. Jack lifted his hand to ease the polar creature back. Sitting up filled him with stabbing, pulsating pain that he couldn't just ignore; luckily helping hands kept him upright.

"I'm ok… I'm ok…"

Phil's brow lifted skeptically, and Jack didn't have the energy to try convincing him otherwise. To be honest, he had no idea if he was ok or not. He didn't know if he was hot or cold, didn't know why he was shaking and weak with exhaustion, couldn't tell how much darkness might be flowing in his veins, didn't understand why memories were still seeping back to him, didn't know how to stop them from happening, and above all couldn't make sense out of why nearly half of his torso felt like it was on fire. He just wanted to be cold, stop shaking, and not remember anything else. Having his sweatshirt back would have been a plus.

So Jack turned his palm up, changing his gesture to a plea for assistance.

"Help me out, Phil. Put me on the floor." Because he figured maybe, with his back against the ice blocks in the corner, the burning might subside a little. And maybe with the pain of sitting up he could stay awake, and stay away from the unsettling memories until he could ask one of his new friends what in Mother Nature was going on with him.

* * *

**Um. In case it's not rampantly clear by now, I specialize in whump and torture... I'm capable of writing happy stuff! Really I am! I just... write not-so-happies a lot more. ^_^; This was a long one. We're almost to the juicy bits, dear readers! This one feels muddled to me in some spots, but I've been through it so many times I just can't look at it anymore. On the whole, I'm mildly dissatisfied with the way it came out (probably because I could summarize three-quarters of this chapter with the sentence "the Guardians talked.") Sometime down the road I might try to tighten this up and improve its composition. Until then, it's going to sit here in this sad state, begging me to make it worth squat. :/ But, I did like the way the Guardians interact with each other, so that's why I kept it as long as it is. I hope they seem in-character enough to be convincing, yet adjusted enough to get the seriousness across (always gotta make room when using characters from what is technically a children's film. Go fig.)**

**And I am aware; the sign language thing is a bit of a cop out... I couldn't get these concepts to work any other way, and it's such a beautiful language that I figure when it's necessary, Sandy and Tooth know to use it.**

**The question popped up about whether Jack meant the Arizona snow of 1985 or 1885. I'll answer that here. Although I know it has snowed in the valley before, it's the storm of 1985, which actually did happen. That was the year I was born, and it was the only snow I "witnessed" until I moved to the Midwest 19 years later. It wasn't so much a storm as a phenomenon where it happened to be cold enough in the valley beyond the mountains (which get between 2-12 inches per year) for, I think it was... 1-2 inches to stick on the ground for more than 4 hours. It made the news in a "our generation has never seen the likes of this!" sort of way. I figure Jack probably had a lot of fun causing a ridiculous amount of commotion for so little snowfall, but can't imagine he wasn't exhausted by the end of it for various reasons. Usually deserts are far too dry for precipitation to reach the ground if it leaves the clouds - it evaporates before it gets there, which we call virga. So there's you knowledge junkie rant of the day!**

**Hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned for a juicy history lesson in the next installment, and after that: CARNAGE!**

**~mjb**


	4. Sinister History

Bunny sighed heavily and stared at the box in his paws, brushing away some of the soil it had been buried under. He wanted nothing more than to return to his Warren with the egg golem he'd just sent back. The hustling and bustling of yetis dragged him out of his fog, only to have his attention latch onto the box and its contents. He needed to be here for this. Needed to be here for when all hell broke loose and people started panicking. He owed it to Old Man Winter.

The thought of the spirit past dug icy claws of regret into his heart. If only. If only…

"Bunny!"

He startled, looking up to find Tooth's fine plumage filling his vision. He must have been spacing out. Not good.

"I can take that," she said lowly, gesturing at the box.

"Burn it while you're at it," he spat, but gave the ornately carved and painted item to her.

"Not yet," she replied, and he knew she understood him, "but soon." She squeezed his shoulder and flitted to the other side of the room. Preparations were nearly ready for tomorrow's inevitable horror show.

A few yetis tisked at the large bay windows, and the howling winds outside. There was talk of storm-boarding the panes if the weather outside got any rougher - clearly, the winds knew something was wrong.

A plain wooden workbench had been confiscated from the production floor and was now looming in the middle of the room like a foreboding shadow. A smaller table nearby was stacked high with crisp white towels, rolls of bandaging, gauze, and tinctures the yetis had been working on for several hours. One such yeti was now lifting his arms high, unfurling a white sheet to let it float down upon the bench.

Part of Bunny was jealous the kid got a lot better preparation and treatment than he had centuries ago. But he was also glad. The less time the shadows had to haunt Jack Frost, the better off he would be. Not just because of the scarring it would leave on his psyche, but because of how strong a spirit the boy was. If they failed to do the purification properly, two choices would be left to Jack. Death was the nicer option.

For everyone.

Bunny shuddered, suddenly feeling suffocated in the busy room. All the roiling emotions from time so long past was feeding an anger deep in his gut – an anger that mocked him. _Your people would be so ashamed to see you in such a wreck. You're pathetic. How can you stand to call yourself a Pooka? You'll fail Jack just like you failed the Old Man. _

The Guardian of Hope didn't know when he stumbled from the room, but stumble he did, finding the far corner of the hallway and wedging himself into it. He wanted to believe this was all Pitch playing his occasional mind games with the Guardians. He wanted to believe he would wake up and laugh at the Boogeyman's last attempt at revenge for the next few centuries.

He knew better.

He wanted to push the memories and the pain and the emotions aside, bury them and ignore them like he had for centuries. He wanted to wield his boomerangs and clobber the daylights out of his soul as if it were a solid enemy. He wanted to shake it off like rain water shook from his fur and move on like a true Pooka warrior.

It stuck like oil to his core.

His center of Hope was failing him, leaving him a ravaged husk of what he should be.

How could he help the new Guardian if he couldn't help himself?

* * *

North found him at the end of the hallway, pressing himself into the weak shadows in the corner, where the warmth of light couldn't reach every crevice. He decided watching over Jack could wait a few minutes as long as Phil was already on task.

He had never seen the warrior rabbit so distraught outside of the unwelcome sleigh rides, and he had quickly gotten over that. When Bunny growled at himself and clutched at his head, North was prompted forward. Concern welled up in his belly when he thought there wasn't room left for more of the blasted feeling.

"Bunny," he said quietly as he approached (no need to scare the rabbit into a heart attack). "What is wrong?"

Bunny didn't look up, but he moaned uncertainly. He curled tightly on himself, little more than a fluffy mound of stress and fur. Concern every growing, North crouched before his friend. Bunny's knee, though tightly wrapped, struggled to obey the Pooka's command for the security of being tightly wound. Furthermore, he didn't acknowledge North's presence. He seemed to be fighting with himself.

Carefully, North took hold of the bridge of Bunny's foot and pulled. That snapped him out of his stupor and pulled a pained grunt from him as his knee was straightened along the floor.

"You should be more careful," the Russian admonished. "Immortal or no, it won't heal properly if you keep bothering it."

Bunny blinked at him, then looked away and muttered something North couldn't hear. It didn't take much for the larger man to know Bunny was ashamed of his weakness. Whether one was a tribal warrior, or an ex-bandit/soldier, the mindset was the same: be strong for strength's sake. But his friend was struggling with the inky shadows of the past. He knew that haunted look all too well, and centuries of watching the world work did little to prevent men like them from thinking they should be able to handle it on their own.

Now was not the time for pride.

Once he knew Bunny would let his leg rest, he straightened just enough to settle his back against the wall. He rested his elbows upon raised knees, casual and brotherly in all but the subject he was about to breech.

"Aster," said he, and was regarded with a darkened green gaze. "Perhaps it's wise if you talk of your experience so many years ago."

Bunny looked away with a sigh, ears low and brows knit into a frown. "Not much to talk about, really," he replied. His paw wandered rose to knead the back of his shoulder. North knew of the scarring there, knew Bunny's propensity to knead his claws into it until it bled if the circumstances were just right.

They were now.

"Your actions say differently, my friend," North replied. He could only hope he wasn't going to cause the warrior to shut himself off. He kept an eye on Bunny's working paw, ready to intervene when the time came. This was a warrior suffering from old battle scars – something North had experienced himself even after the start of his Guardianship. It was human nature, whether they were mortal or immortal. Apparently, Pookas were no different. He was mildly surprised when Bunny began to speak.

"Pitch likes to get you when your back is turned. He gets into your head. Weakens you. Won't let you rest. And when you're at your weakest, he plans to take you. You know what it's like to have a dark Guardian mark a bead on you, North, but when he's in your head… It's different. I don't think Frostbite is ready for that kind of fight."

"He has proven us wrong before. We shouldn't underestimate him."

"I'm not underestimating! I'm concerned that if the darkness succeeds, we'll be up against a force we're not prepared for. We wanted Jack to be a Guardian to prevent exactly this! We underestimated Pitch after the Dark Ages – plenty of time to strengthen the darkness while he tinkered with dream sand. It doesn't matter that he isn't holding the reins on the darkness anymore. If there's an ounce of real darkness in the kid, we won't stand a chance. The shadows will find it."

"Aster…" North breathed, utterly flabbergasted that his friend – the very embodiment of Hope and New Life – was speaking in such a manner.

"No listen!" And then Bunny was searching for words. It took him a moment. "We have to consider the worst case scenario, Nick, or we'd be fooling ourselves." Bunny tucked chin to chest at the thought, staring into the middle distance. "Do you even know what we have to do to Jack in the morning?"

"Not really," North answered honestly. And he didn't. He hadn't been around to witness Bunny's purification. While he had risien to Guardianship to guard the invaluable feelings of Wonder in children, part of why MiM had chosen him when he had was vital timing. Someone needed to be there for the children as a stand-in for the duration of Bunnymund's recovery after his battle with darkness. And that was all North really knew aside from a few sketchy details.

E. Aster Bunnymund had been around for many centuries before he was chosen as a Guardian. Not long after he had risen to the calling, he fought a great battle and nearly lost. It ended the Dark Ages. Many other spirits died either in the battle or in their efforts to keep him alive – the name Old Man Winter had come up more than once. The Pooka had apparently been capable of a few different physical forms, and had lost that ability in the midst of his battle damage. He had even degenerated into something akin to a tiny bunny rabbit – which was how North had first met him. He'd had no idea how great a creature Bunny had been, and how horrible his lighthearted teasing had been to the warrior at the time. It got them off to a rocky start, to say the least.

Jack's immortal birth, too, coincided with the events and was surely not a happy coincidence. He'd been chosen for immortality by Manny less than a decade after North had risen to Guardianship. For the first time, the man wondered if maybe Bunny blamed himself for Jack's eternal state floating between boy and man. For what it was worth, Bunny now seemed torn between telling North about tomorrow's plan of action or telling him off completely. That was more the Aster he knew; not this shivering mess of nerves. But then he was pulling at his shoulder again. North sighed and reached for his paw.

"Stop that," he chided.

"Rack off!"

He withdrew, his face falling with the weight of sadness. Annoyance flared on its heels. If he felt there was a need, North had no qualms about letting his inner bandit resurface in the face of the stubborn Pooka.

"You are forgetting, I didn't know you until after your brush with wild darkness," he growled instead. The stern tone seemed to shake something in Bunny's demeanor. He left his shoulder alone long enough to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub his paw over his face.

"You recall hearing about rampant demon possession during the Dark Ages, and in other periods of history, right?"

"Yes…"

"Part of that was Pitch, or others like him, infecting people with darkness - raw negative energy. The jolt of power it gave them is like putting jet fuel in a car engine. But they were messing with powers they shouldn't have been touching. Too much of it turned them into actual demons, _real_ monsters the humans could see and kill. Pitch wielded pure darkness the easiest out of them all; he survived long as he did because he knew how to use it sparingly: one whiff of that stuff could last him for decades if he needed, and he was smart enough not to be a glutton.

"During my battle with him I got cocky, and he got desperate. He shadowed me in an attempt to strengthen himself, and it almost worked. Thing about shadowing is it takes a while for it to get hold of a Guardian." He started kneading at his shoulder again. "Sneaky bastard… I didn't know anything was wrong until a couple days later, after my battle wound had started knitting itself together. By then, it was almost too late for me. Later, I was told the darkness in me was worse than any spirit had ever seen. By defeating Pitch and weakening him, I caused him to lose control of the darkness he planted in me. It ran wild without any real way to stop it. It fed on the darker parts of my history, grew the rage and bad intentions I buried eons before."

North took a moment to stroke his beard and absorb all this. Thinking carefully, trying to see it in his mind, made him shudder.

"And this is Jack's situation as well?"

"Yes."

"What must we do?"

Bunny seemed to consider his options for a moment. With a collecting breath, he turned his back to the larger man. "Put your fingers where my paw is."

North did, the familiar feel of knotted scar tissue shifting under his fingers as he worked through the fur.

"Follow it."

He did. The trail led from the juncture of Bunny's neck and shoulder, swelling to cover most of the right shoulder blade.

"That's the battle wound," Bunny stated. He gestured a paw for North to keep following the mark. It narrowed to a trail the width of one fingertip, dipping on a steep diagonal. So he followed it down. And down. And down.

It crossed his spine.

And down.

Nearly to Bunny's left hip, the trail finally stopped. But North was disturbed enough. He pulled away with a soft curse in his mother tongue.

"And that's what the darkness did. Sandy and Tooth were there. A few spirits tried to help," Bunny explained, leaning into the corner again. He crossed his arms over his chest and dipped his chin. "Old Man Winter was one of them. He and Sandy were working together to purify me. He was standing too close when the darkness broke free."

It clicked for North. Bunny didn't avoid the subject because of the injury he'd sustained. He avoided it because of the fate of Old Man Winter. Survivor's guilt, so to speak.

"I don't remember much. Sandy and Tooth told me they thought the escaping shadows were going to split me in two. They nearly did." The proof was in the trailing scar beneath his fur. A pregnant silence stretched between them. It was finally sinking in how the Guardians were planning to "help" Jack. North had done a lot of things in his life – both in his mortal time and in his Guardianship. But this… This would take all his fearlessness, all his courage and bravery.

"It's not just a physical battle, Nick," Bunny was saying quietly. "Darkness can drive mortals mad within minutes. My few days were... _hell._ If I hadn't made it, I'd have been made a monster myself. I can only hope we've caught the rampant shadows early enough that Frost won't have to fight so hard."

"And what, exactly, must be done to purge him?" North ventured, steeling himself for an unpleasant answer.

"Without Pitch to manipulate it, the shadows have no guidance. They take the path of least resistance. My saving grace was lancing the shoulder wound, where it got in. Jack's wound is _under_ his skin. We have to give the darkness a physical pathway out of his body. Sandy will conquer it once it escapes."

"And if Jack does not win this fight?"

Bunny shifted uncomfortably. "If the darkness takes over, the only act of mercy we can offer him is a quick death."

At a loss, North bent his face into his hands.

"Nick," Bunny murmured. "I have a task for you to do tomorrow. I trust you'll do a better job of it than me."

* * *

His watch on Jack did not go well. The Cossak walked into his room to find him slouching against the ice blocks in the corner. Phil was watching him, looking frustrated and helpless as the frost child struggled to stay awake. Sandy's instructions rang clear and urgent in North's mind: Jack needed to rest as much as possible. When he said as much, the young man stoutly refused to sleep. From what North could gather out of his vague answers, there were memories still surfacing, and the shadows were bringing forth the most prominent dark memories he had.

North's one glimmer of hope became the sneaking suspicion that none of Jack's memories were made of truly dark material, for he had not lived long enough to see the horrors life could bestow on colonial settlements. His experiences as an immortal, too, were colored by his center and reason for existence: fun. Fun was a dispeller of darkness, as resilient as hope or faith could be.

He tried to get Jack to go to bed – not to sleep, but just to rest lying down. Jack refused. After much coaxing, he at least got him to move to the window seat, where Jack promptly set his forehead against the arctic glass. Frost spread from the point of contact, slowly ferning out to the entire wall-high window. That, at least, was a good sign.

Jack's fading lucidity was not.

Over the course of the night, his clarity of mind took a rapid decline. Dream sand was sprinkled upon him to dull his pain, but it did little more than help him doze off, the pain great enough to keep him awake even at the best of times. While he did not feel feverish, he acted as if he were. His breathing became reedy and thin. He kept asking for his sweatshirt, forgetting that the answer a few minutes before had been "no."

North couldn't sit still and watch the rapid decay of Jack's state. But he had no choice. Tooth's watch yielded no better results – not that they had been expecting any improvement. She tried holding conversations with him a time or two, but his awareness continued to shrink. He couldn't stay on subject, and her attempts quickly petered into awkward silence when Jack forgot they were talking.

Bunny watched over Jack until morning light, by which point the boy was experiencing lucid dreams. At least, that's what they thought they were. There was no other explanation for apologizing about drinking from a spoiled well, or asking if his sister was ill too, or fretting that the village didn't have a doctor. Bunny decided, as dawn began to creep over the ice for its short day, that Jack must have experienced a serious illness during his time as a mortal. Perhaps a plague of some kind. It's what it sounded like, and living for centuries gave one a pretty good grip on the contents of a memory just by the archaic vocabulary.

Bunny tried to get him to just lie down on his window sill, but every time he tried the kid panicked, refusing to be moved. By dawn, Bunny estimated he had been holding the kid upright in his window seat for over three hours. His head lolled, eyes drifted under half-mast lids, a sheen of sweat froze on the skin of his neck, shoulders and chest, and he no longer responded to questions.

Sandy entered the room looking a little better. He wore a grim expression, pointedly refusing to show the sadness and concern that was glittering behind his eyes. His lips thinned as he checked over the newest Guardian. When he was satisfied, he touched Bunny's shoulder to draw his attention, and nodded.

Despite himself, Bunny's stomach dropped to his feet at the clear message:

_It's time._

* * *

**Happy New Year! I usually try to wait at least three days to post, but heck, we're bringing in 2013. I've been so blown away by the response to the last couple chapters, I have the feels like mad! So I'm whipping this out for all you wonderful people. I really wasn't expecting this story to be very successful at all, so I feel super-honored at the attention it's gotten.**

**M'kay. So I wasn't exactly expecting Bunnymund to just spill the beans like that. He didn't seem to me to be the kind of character that would just offer painful info, but he's also a seasoned warrior who knows when info is important for survival. Part of being unflappable, in my mind, is knowing when to share your experiences for the benefit of others. I'm playing with concepts I should maybe leave alone, too, like the real length of Bunny's lifespan (though in the books, he lives for Eons before coming into the picture.), and Tooth's abilitiy to understand all the languages of the world (I _think_ I heard that was in the books?) I kind of just went with whatever flowed best. I like it, mostly, and I hope it makes sense of the whole Shadowed concept more clearly. I just need to remind myself that hey, it's a fanfic, it does what it wants. It do what it want!**

**An enormous, heartfelt thank you to the reviewers for their support and encouragement over the last three chapters: DragonsFlame117, Sorida, KatFromHell, RainyDayinAstrasia, Vampires United, MintLeafeon, RimaPichi, Dragowolf, ThatOneFan, Alaia Skyhawk, juniper294, scrubslova, R.O.T.G.-LOVER, DELTORAQUEST1, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, hypercell, and kyuubecky. A thank you, as well, to everyone who has favorited/followed this little diddy. You've made my year! (See what I did there? HAHA. I made a funny.)**

**I hope you enjoyed. Stick around for the next installment, when things really start to get tense!**

**~mjb**


	5. Oil

_Jackson could have sworn he had been sleeping. What had happened to that? He enjoyed sleeping._

_A sharp pain against his arm was his answer. His arm was aching and tickling. He was trying so very hard to understand why his arm was tickling. In the midst of the heat and the hurt and the confusion, he found the strength to move his arm. He wanted to know why._

_A hand closed upon his wrist and held him still. Other hands came to rest on his frozen white-hot forehead. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn't understand the words. It took all his courage to open his eyes. There was a stranger by his bedside. A stranger he was supposed to know._

_He wanted to ask who the man was. He tried, but only managed to make himself cough. That's when his vision began to swim again in wax waves, and he closed his eyes before he could frighten himself. The rolling agony in his chest and belly made his arm not hurt anymore, but something still felt wrong. _

_Wrong enough that he was driven to open his eyes and look._

_Red. Red, red, red was leaking from his arm. It wasn't supposed to be. He barely remembered trying not to get red on his clothes, and now there was red. It upset him. It panicked him. He shifted, knowing he had to clean it up._

_There were voices in his ears again, and he wanted them to stop because he couldn't understand so what was the point? There were hands on his shoulders, and he wanted them to stop because it _hurt_ and didn't they understand that touching pained him? There was water at his lips, and he wanted it to stop because he didn't want to worsen the pain in his belly. There was a hand tight on his other wrist and was that really necessary because his skin was ready to crawl away from him!_

_Something sharp bit into his forearm. His skin tickled. He knew there was red on both arms now; making a mess and someone… he couldn't remember who; but someone was sure to wrap him one when they saw the red. Why was the man making this happen?_

_And then it clicked._

_The man was trying to help him. The man was trying to get the bad blood out. So Jackson gave up trying to reason with them. Because if bleeding on purpose helped him get better, he would gladly bleed until there was nothing left. If it made his pain go away, if it made his shivering-cold fiery-hot middle world go away, and made his skin stop crawling, and made his chest stop exploding, and made it possible to just _breathe_, then they could have all of it._

_He didn't want it anymore, anyway._

Something roused him, then. If he ever found out what it was, it would be a miracle, since all it did was make him vaguely aware of his existence. He felt as if he had been dreaming with his eyes open, a strange displacement of what he saw and what was happening. It was such a distant thought, though, that he let it fade away. He couldn't remember what he had been doing before, but it was important and he didn't have time for silly thoughts.

He felt funny.

It took him a minute to realize he was hurting.

Then he wished he hadn't realized it, because it was dragging him out of his very important haze. He groaned with the force of the discomfort. He could swear something was _crawling through his insides._ Whatever it was had decided to settle into top of his chest, pushing everything else out of the way with an unimaginable ache.

He was supposed to be doing something. He was supposed to be remembering something. For the life of him, he couldn't recall. Sudden as a lightning strike, he realized he was being touched. Not so much by the feel, but by the pressure against his skin. It took him farther out of his not-sleep, dragged another sound out of him when it shifted feather-light and excruciating over his ribs and flank.

And now he was too aware.

Open eyes now seeing what was going on, Jack felt a flush of shame and embarrassment that the other Guardians were watching him so close. He was shirtless, too, and Tooth was _right there in his face_.

"Oh, thank Manny," she was muttering. Her hands cupped his face, warm and heavy with the scent of sandalwood. "Jack, do you hear me?"

He only managed to blink at her. He couldn't seem to get air into his lungs. He tried nodding and ended up resting all the weight of his head into her hands. When did his neck get so tired? He was really hot and crawly. He felt a little stupid, but couldn't think of a reason to feel that way. When he opened his eyes again, swirls of dark were interrupting the picture. Clarity clicked back into place with a palpable body-wide shiver. Darkness. Shadows.

Oh…_hell_.

And now Jack needed to breathe because he needed to ask questions. Was it morning already? Was the darkness any closer to being gone? Were they going to help him? He tried, he really _really_ tried to breathe. He coughed raggedly instead, fighting against the pressure in his chest. Something cold flowed over his lips.

There was a scream, Tooth's hands were suddenly gone, and there was a flurry of movement. His brain screamed to right his balance, but his body wasn't listening. He kept tipping, and just when he thought the landing would be rough, he was settled gently by a flood of hands. He was dizzy for a moment, and then he was on his side. He kept coughing, and… _stuff_ that wasn't air kept passing his lips. It was thick, it felt nasty and oily and all of a sudden he wanted a bath so bad he'd fight for it.

But no matter how much stuff he coughed out, air would not replace it. He was dizzy. Exhausted. Black kept encroaching further into his sight like a bad shadow puppet. Rough pressure rolled up his back – touch he didn't recognize. It felt weird and comforting and made his skin want to crawl away from him. He wasn't sure if he liked it or hated it. He decided he hated it when more cold oil passed through his mouth. Hated it even more when someone pressed up on his belly and tried to get under his ribcage. All he could do was expel, and he wanted _air_. Manny help him, the _pain_ of being pushed at from both sides…

And suddenly air was filling him. He sucked it in as deep as he could – and that wasn't nearly deep enough. His exhale came with a torturous cry that hurt his own ears, and he couldn't bring himself to care who else heard it. Breathing came quick and shallow after that, but he was breathing and for a few gloriously simple moments that was all that mattered. Through the roaring waves of pressure and pain, Jack began to notice the voices floating around him. He could tell his name was being called. He thought, maybe, it was important to try and listen. Noises soon clarified, becoming words.

"Jack! You hear me?"

That was Bunny. Bless that blasted kangaroo, but Jack had no idea why he was so relieved to hear his voice. He couldn't bring himself to speak through his gulping breaths, so he nodded. That made him dizzier…

"Listen, mate, we need to help you get rid of these tetchy shadows, all right?"

He managed another nod. He also managed to open his eyes, though he wasn't sure when he'd closed them. He was on the floor, staring at a pool of black, foul smelling ooze. Was that what he'd been coughing up? The thought made him nauseous, but also made horribly perfect sense. He was rolled onto his back, and came face to face with Bunny's grim visage. The giant rabbit's ears were pressed back, and Jack suddenly hoped he hadn't made him mad somehow.

He felt himself half-lifted, his back coming to rest on someone's lap (Tooth, if the smell of sandalwood was anything to go by). Bunny's paws were supporting the back of his neck, angling his head so that it was easier to breathe, and despite his wounded pride he was thankful for the help. He'd have to express that to them when he found the strength to speak.

"Ok, kid, we're gonna help you," Bunny was saying, "but you need to understand what we have to do. You read me?"

If Bunny could stop with the requests for head bobbing it would be just peachy, because it was making Jack nauseous.

"Jack, we have to hurt you in order to help you," Tooth's voice floated down from above his head. He was too busy breathing to catch her tone. "We need to give the shadows an escape route through your body."

Oh lovely. Just like bloodletting. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"Through the shadow wound, specifically."

… Wait. What? They were going to cut open his wound. What was this, the dark ages?!

"_Breathe_, Frost," Bunny commanded.

Oh yeah. Right. That. Well, he knew one thing for certain: whatever was happening, it was making him really sick. If he was sick, he couldn't do his job (however new) and he couldn't play with the kids.

The kids… He needed to be with children. He needed to do his job. He couldn't let Jamie down. In that moment, he wanted their belief, wanted their company, their smiles, their trust so badly that it shifted the amorphous intruder in his chest. Would he let himself be hurt if it let him be with the children?

Even in his feverish fugue, it was a stupid question.

Then he felt the slowing of his brain. Felt the tiny glimmer of reason leave him behind. He had just enough time to nod his ascent before sinking back into the half-aware fog. He would do whatever it took to see the kids again.

* * *

North was a man with a long history. A fearless, bandit-filled, battle-scarred history. But there were some things – no matter how thoroughly a man is warned – that he is not prepared for.

He'd been the last to enter Jack's room after Sandy's gentle wake-up call, and he wished he hadn't had to go there at all. The others were already at work hovering over Jack's slouched form in the window sill, and the Wonder Guardian felt quite at a loss for anything useful to do. After all, he was the only Guardian who hadn't witnessed or experienced the damage raw darkness could do. For the first time in centuries, he felt powerless and lost.

But Nicholas St. North was, first and foremost, a soldier and a Cossak. He had lived in the hurry-up-and-wait routine long enough to know when it was wise to stick around. So he stood on the edge of the commotion, poised for a battle that wasn't his to begin with.

Tooth was busy trying to rouse Jack from whatever fog he'd slipped into. He looked worse than he had when North had left him in her care, and he couldn't bring himself to be surprised at the boy's unresponsive state. It looked like he was trying, though. North leaned into the huddle a bit, watching Jack's eyes swim about as he fought for consciousness. A chill ran through him at the sight. Jack's eyes were far too dark – a shifting mix of navy and black – and he had to wonder how much time they had to intervene before the darkness began its insidious transformation. But then his eyes were suddenly _blue_ again, and focused on Tooth. She cradled his jaw in her hand and whispered a thankful prayer.

North wasn't prepared for Tooth's startled cry and sudden withdrawal from the boy. He wasn't prepared for Sandy's attack of her hands, scrubbing sand over the splashes of black oil on her palms and wrists. He wasn't prepared for Bunny's rapid and smooth movement, lifting Jack from the sill. When the Pooka's knee made him teeter, North rushed forward, offering his hands to hold the slight weight of the winter sprite while they lowered him to the floor. Bunny turned him onto his side while he continued to cough.

There were some things a man could not hope to prepare for.

Watching an eternal teenager cough up the tar-black evil of ancient lore was one of them.

"He's choking!" Tooth cried. Sandy gripped her wrists, preventing her from leaving his company as he frantically cleansed the shadows from her skin and feathers. Bunny was rubbing his paws up Jack's back the next moment, making the boy squirm and cough up an impossible mouthful of the foul stuff. His inhales sounded wet and heavy as lead.

"Nick, help me out," Bunny growled. He was focused, wound tight. "Push up on his diaphragm."

"On his what?" Hundreds of years speaking English, and there were still some words that stumped him...

"His _belly!_" the Pooka snapped and kept one paw moving. He gripped North's wrist with the other, guiding his hand to the proper place on Jack's bare skin. It was then that the he noticed how the inky etchings had grown, stretching like sinister tattoos across nearly half his torso and disappearing around his back.

"_Nick! _Push _up_!"

It kicked the man back to reality. He did as he was told, careful to use only a fraction of his incredible strength. A horrified grunt left Jack's mouth with more oil, and North nearly withdrew.

"Don't stop," Bunny barked without looking up. "He's drowning in the stuff. You keep pressing until I say so."

And that was that. So North kept pressing until his fingertips touched under Jack's ribs. He rolled his fingers over his belly again. Bunny made him press harder, made the boy squirm with the rough drags of his paws and North's fingers.

Jack was suddenly sucking in clear air, and the cry that emanated from him nearly crushed the North's soul with guilt.

"That's good. That's good," Bunny was muttering, "Go make sure the room's ready." He pushed North's hands away. Looking about the room only briefly, he spotted his other comrades. "Tooth, c'mere," he ordered. She darted over with clean hands, listening carefully to Bunny's directions.

North could only watch as the Guardian of Hope moved flawlessly into the role of leader. Much as he wanted to be peeved that his larger-than-life charisma was being overshadowed in the commotion, he couldn't bring himself to direct his ire at anyone but himself. So he left the room, and was secretly glad of it.

He took his frustration out on his yetis, bossing them around in his mother tongue and adding a few colorful words for effect. The elves skittered away, and his ever-loyal yetis watched him uncertainly, but said nothing of his unusual behavior. He'd been angry before, and now he had a truly good reason; they were smart enough to endure the proverbial punishment for now.

The room – temporarily dubbed the Purification Room – was in order and ready to receive the winter spirit. Ice blocks in the corner (his special prototype blend that didn't melt), side table covered in the proper accoutrements, water pitcher and basin for hand-washing, and the small fire kindling in the corner. The large, sheet-draped work bench held an ominous feel all its own, sporting makeshift cloth restraints made of burlap sack pieces and satin ribbon. It felt so wrong, but Bunny had insisted they might be necessary. There was only one thing North was supposed to do before Jack was brought in, a task Bunny trusted him to do properly. It was a task assigned after the previous night's conversation had turned awkward and heavy. North glared at the ornate wooden box – yet to be opened – with something akin to unmitigated rage. The unassuming thing held such a terrible prize inside, much like Pandora's box with its secret of chaos.

He would have loved to smash the box, grind it to splinters, but knew by the craftsmanship it was not a smart idea. The familiar sunburst patterns looked as though they had been carved using Bunny's own armor as a reference. The jewels that adorned it – even through the soil and loam that dirtied every nook and cranny – shone brighter than those found on Bunny's bracers. This container had been made by the Easter Bunny himself. North knew this was a standing testament for the lengths others had gone to save the Pooka warrior from the shadows. He could feel it in his belly. The lid of the box came away easily, and the Spirit of Wonder proceeded to remove its terrible prize.

The ancient dagger of Old Man Winter.

Even more intricate than the box in which it was kept, the long mirror steel blade and mother-of-pearl handle glinted brightly in the room's warm light. Legend had it this very weapon had the spirit of frost within. It was the relic of the first spirit of winter, and it had been responsible for saving Bunny's life. The spell it had been imbued with eons ago was long gone, but North didn't question why Sandy wanted to use the weapon for the same action that had killed its owner. With little time to reminisce on things he hadn't been there to see, North took the dagger from its box and walked to the fire.

There, he purged the weapon, searing away any dust and impurities in the enchanted flames of Santoff Claussen. He cooled the blade in the blocks of never-melting ice. The hissing cloud of steam that rose made him squint. North inspected the blade as only a master swordsman could, scrutinizing every inch of it. When he was satisfied, he returned it to the bedside table.

North listened to the wind howling outside the window, battering at the glass and demanding entry. He was certain the wind was upset, worried for its favorite spirit. He had yet to learn how Jack had made such good friends with the very air, which didn't heed the command of anyone. He leaned heavily on the work bench and prayed. Prayed that he would have the chance to hear Jack's story of how he made friends with the wind. For the chance to hear _any story_ Jack would offer.

He prayed Jack's story was not being cut short, just as it was beginning.

* * *

**Yar! Um. Sorry for the subtle jump back in time there. I don't usually like that type of storyline delivery, but I liked North's point of view too much to cut it even though it jogged the timeline a tiny bit. Hope that's not too bothersome, but if you're reading the author's note, I'm going to guess you survived it. XD Thanks so much for sticking with me so far. So I'm extremely excited for the next chapter. I'll be honest, I'm not sure how long I can hold out on posting it. It's chock full of angsty goodness!**

**That being said, I would like to make a tiny request: please, no death threats or promises of bodily harm for faster updates! ^_^; I have had nothing but love and encouragement from everyone, even though my cliff hangers might cause some... ruckus, and I would so love to keep the love and encouragement flowing. I know, I'm a horrible author, making ya'll wait. But it'll be good! I promise! I love you all so much! AND I FEEL SO LOVED! You are all amazing and awesome.**

**Which reminds me! Thank you to: Alaia Skyhawk, Sarah, Luna Frost, ThatOneFan, Fumus000, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, RainyDayinAstrasia, KatFromHell, Vampires United, Dragowolf, My5tic-Lali, DragonflyonBreak, xShinigamixMPx, kyuubecky, juniper294, DragonsFlame117, and Bard of Chaos for your wonderful reviews! Sorry if I missed your name in the last mention or in this one. Please note, if you were kind enough to send me a review but don't have an account or weren't signed in, it takes a couple days for your precious soul food to reach my greedy fingers. But know that I squee at every new review like a child running free in North's workshop. **

**And of course, thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed, and read _Shadowed Victory_. You complete me.**

**Hope to see you 'round for the next installment!**

**~mjb**


	6. The Voice

Sandy steadied Jack's head as they set him upon the table. His blood thrummed in his ears, a terrible mix of love and fear and anger and worry. He was Sanderson Mansnoozie, chosen by MiM to be the bringer of dreams to all because of his calm, steady nature.

He was being a terrible hypocrite right now.

All he wanted to do was panic, wanted to rage about, wanted to make a certain dark spirit _pay_ for this insolent _trick_. But he was drawn to focus on the declining condition of a magnificent spirit – a Guardian barely twenty-four hours. And after centuries of knowing the boy from a distance and yet being the closest to him, he had to wonder when Jack Frost would manage to catch a break.

Clearly, that was not going to happen right now.

Sandy rolled back his sleeves, revealing pale gold skin sporting a few old lash marks. None of the Guardians were without their select battle scars – remnants of damage done in mortal days or by some enchanted relic or other. They had Eons to account for.

And it was always a grim day when Sanderson was forced to roll up his sleeves.

The wind must have known; it battered against the large bay windows with a furious howl. The yetis were already boarding the windows for fear of its fury, and they could not risk an upset of the environment in this delicate situation. Sandy set his focus upon the one for whom the wind howled; the winter child. This wonderful, light-filled, sadly clueless, tenacious trickster of an almost-man. A sad sigh escaped him, and his vast knowledge was of no comfort here. There were so many unanswered questions…

Jack's sheen of frost had melted and left his skin glistening with sweat – would it freeze again if the darkness took hold? His eyes were dark with swirling shadows – would they ever see the ethereal blue of snowflake eyes again? The dancing whorls of ancient darkness had spread to cover half his torso and back – how strong would these uncontrolled shadows become? The tattoos of evil were starting to encompass his shoulder, press down his left arm – were they too late in stopping it from invading Jack's heart?

Sandy searched the shifting patterns of black carefully, trying to find the point of entry. It was difficult – Pitch had figured out how to inject the shadows without breaking the skin – but at least the golden man didn't have fur to contend with this time… It was not as comforting a thought as he had hoped. He glanced up at the Easter Bunny. He looked so vulnerable without his armor, so plainly worried, but busy with his task of helping Tooth bring Jack out of his fugue.

The purification would not work if the boy was unconscious. It hurt the ancient dream maker to know such a thing.

He finally found the place of the shadows' original entry, far over on the left side, halfway between Jack's hip and his fluttering ribs. But these shadows moved differently than the ones that had ailed Aster those centuries ago. There was something amiss here – something the golden man knew he had to be careful of. He knew that the… _escape route_ he was to facilitate in Jack's body had to follow the path of least resistance. For Aster, that had meant reopening the corrupted battle wound inflicted by Pitch. For Jack, it meant cutting the path the shadows would have followed to get in, had the wound been physical. Finding that hypothetical path was proving a sickeningly guilt-ridden and difficult task.

Sandy pressed against the bruises and shadows, picturing the sharp stab of shadows as if it were one of the arrows Pitch loved to wield. His back twinged at the memory of one of those hideous missiles laced with his corrupted sand, but he had to shake himself out of the recent memory. There would be time for mentally scarred reminiscing later.

Where on the unfortunate boy's body was he to carve a path for the darkness? Pressing the heinously decorated area elicited a wheezing groan this time, but Sandy also took note of how firm and warm Jack's skin felt. The purple bruising had come by means of a physical blow – they were dealing with mystical and physical damage that may or may not have occurred independently of each other. This complicated matters.

He palpated more firmly along the flank, trying to feel where the physical body clashed with the magical enemy. Jack cried weakly, and the others wasted no time in talking him closer and closer to the surface. The swirling patterns reared at Sandy's touch. While this was a good sign, it didn't make the elder Guardian feel any less horrible for causing the younger so much pain. More importantly, it revealed to him exactly what he needed to know.

Had Pitch's attack been a solid dark arrow, it would have gone straight through. This complicated matters further.

Manny help them all, this was becoming so very, very complicated…

"Sandy, what's the hold up?" he heard Aster growl.

_Oh nothing, really,_ Sandy found himself wanting to say. _I was just thinking we'll have to _impale_ this poor child on the weapon of a dead spirit, which also just happened to nearly kill you, too, thanks for asking. No big deal, really._

The mental tirade, though, was over as soon as it began. Sandy deflated with a whistling sigh and rubbed at his forehead. In times like these he was wont for a voice, if only to try vocal sarcasm on his comrades. Just _once_.

Jack didn't have time for the bitterness of times past. He needed help, and he needed it now.

"Jack, sweetie, come on, look at me," Tooth was pleading. Sandy waved a hand at her to catch her attention. When she finally tore her eyes away from their charge he signed:

_Straight through the flank from front to back. You and Aster hold his arms. Give Nicholas the dagger._

"No…" she gasped, pale-faced and horrified. "Wait, what? Why him?!"

Yes, why make North the one to _pin the boy _to the table?

_He's a master swordsman. If there's even a distant chance of causing less injury to Jack, Nick holds the card._

"But Bunny –"

He cut her off with a sharp sweep of his hand, ignoring the others' confused glares.

_Aster throws boomerangs for a living. Do you remember the last blade master to help us? Old Man Winter._

Tooth worked her mouth, trying to find words to say. There were none. None that would prove her argument, at least. The winds howled and screamed with a sudden burst of vigor. Yetis scrambled to keep the windows secure.

"I can't get 'im to wake up!" Bunny yelled. But Jack seemed to be stirring, what was –

The boy's hand shot out, gray-tipped fingers vice-gripping the nearest object: Bunny's arm. Ice raced up the Pooka's arm and the side of his neck in jagged, needle-like protrusions. There was only time for half of his startled shout to be heard before Tooth and North were restraining the winter spirit. Jack struggled, arching his back off the bench, but his efforts were uncoordinated.

His efforts were not his own. It was their saving grace.

Sandy rushed to the head of the table and examined the boy's fluttering eyes.

Black as coal. Darkness was taking over.

"Sandy, what do we do?!" Tooth pleaded. Sanderson met her gaze with a grim expression.

_I gave you your tasks, Toothiana. Please wait while I wake him. Soon as Jack's eyes open you must ensure that I too am awake, and Nick must fulfill his task._

Amidst Tooth's panicked protests and the wind's howling threats, Sanderson Mansnoozie went about the act of ultimate hypocrisy. Setting his hands upon Jack's temples, he closed his eyes, concentrated, and with a clear mind and golden sand, went to wake him up.

* * *

_The ground was too far below to see. The clouds around him were dark and foreboding. Lightning flickered in the towering thunderheads, but made no sound._

_The world seemed so _cruel_. _

_He didn't know what that meant, exactly, but he felt it. He was in the air, where he belonged, but the wind was not with him. He called out for his oldest friend. _

_The wind did not come. _

_He was in the air, but his staff was not with him. His hand itched with the closeness of the wood. He reached out to grab it even though he couldn't see it. He thought he touched it, but then it was gone from him. He called after it._

_The shepherd's crook did not come._

_He should have been afraid of falling. He twisted in the air to see if he was stuck. He was. He twisted some more. He didn't like being stuck. _

_He called his friends for help._

_They did not come._

_He was alone._

_He was alone._

_He was _alone_._

_Had he done something wrong? He felt wrong. Jack's fingers felt like lead. His chest was heavy and his heart was… cold. The wrong kind of cold. The dark clouds were pressing in, and it made his chest ache. He didn't want to be in this silent storm. The daylight was fading from the farthest edges of far, and it left him alone in the swirling grays and blacks of roiling thunder heads that had no thunder. _

_The wrongness of it was not lost on him._

_Briefest flashes of light brought him no relief, for they came in the form of sharp electricity – a purple/blue light that held no warmth in its jagged coils. Threatening ropes of glowing white danced by him, about him, promising to scorch his skin._

_It was like being stuck in a Tesla coil. Jack almost certainly remembered falling asleep in one once. It was the worst sort of wake up call. _

_All the while, the clouds and their insidious vapor fingers swirled closer. He shivered and hugged against the pain in his chest and side. That pain was there for a reason, but he couldn't remember what it was. He called for the memory to come back to him, for it must be important._

_It did not heed him._

'_Please,' he begged the clouds, but no matter how much he tried he could not make a sound. He pleaded anyway. 'Leave me alone. Go away. You don't belong here, just leave me be.'_

_Alone. Alone. Alone. Everything he had known. It was all that was left._

_DO YOU WISH FOR FREEDOM, CHILD?_

_Jack clapped his heavy, heavy fingers over his ears. Pain lanced through his mind like a hot poker at the sudden sound. Dare he describe that sound? So powerful, so magnificent. It hurt him to hear it, yet in the next instant he would have done anything to hear that voice again._

_I'M SORRY; I DIDN'T MEAN TO STARTLE YOU…_

_Did he know this voice…? No, he'd never heard it before, but the trust he felt was implicit. _He wasn't alone. _He remembered: he didn't have to be alone anymore._

_DO YOU WISH TO LEAVE THIS PLACE, JACKSON?_

'_Yes,' he tried to answer. Something shifted, grinding inside his chest. He gasped. 'I don't want to be here. There's something wrong with this place.'_

_THAT'S RIGHT. I CAN HELP YOU, BUT YOU MUST WANT WITH YOUR WHOLE HEART TO LEAVE. THERE MUST BE ONLY LIGHT IN YOUR SOUL. IS THERE ANY DARKNESS IN YOUR HEART, CHILD?_

_Jack, in no condition to think, thought anyway. What did it mean to have darkness in one's heart? He wanted more than anything to see the kids again, even if he couldn't remember their faces or when he had seen them last. He had to ensure their smiles and laughter. His very self screamed for the want of putting a sparkle in their eyes._

_OH JACKSON, said the voice, and it sounded so pleased that he couldn't help but smile into the sky he couldn't see. It was like the loudest thunder, deafening even though it sounded more like the gentle fade-away of a sated storm. It was comfort, a healing balm to hear that voice. THE SHADOWS ARE SO STRONG, BUT THEY CANNOT FIND ANYTHING BUT LIGHT IN YOU. THE CLAWS OF EVIL CANNOT FIND ITS GRIP IN YOU. WELL DONE, MY BOY. WELL DONE._

_Jack didn't want to smile anymore, though. There was sadness in that voice. 'What's wrong?' he wanted to ask. Wanted so badly to comfort the voice, to hear its happy velvet vibrations again even as every sound grated like an intrusion on his soul._

_JACKSON… WE MUST LEAVE THIS PLACE. I SEE NOW THAT THE SHADOWS CANNOT TURN YOU INTO DARKNESS, BUT THEY WILL KILL YOU IN THEIR ATTEMPT. WE MUST LEAVE HERE._

"_Yes!" he heard himself cry, and his own voice startled him. "Let's go! Please, take me out of this place."_

_PAIN AWAITS YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THESE CLOUDS. IT IS PAIN THAT MUST BE INFLICTED BY FRIENDS, AND ENDURED IN ORDER TO LIVE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, JACKSON?_

_This brought him pause. Remembering was on the very edge of his mind. But he was confused, too. Friends don't hurt each other… _

"We have to hurt you to help you," _she had said. _

_Clarity clicked back into place with a bone-jarring shiver. Jack was suddenly aware again. He cupped his face in his hands, unwilling to look at what he now understood was the shadows trapped within him swirling about in their storm cloud disguise. _

"_Pain waits for me out there?"_

_For a moment it seemed the voice would not answer him. But he wanted – _needed_ – to hear it. He needed that voice, and it overtook all thought. The voice, the voice, the Voice. The Voice he knew but had never heard. It finally rolled over him like a terrible blessing._

_YES._

_The clouds were nearly touching him, now. They were almost alive with their cutting light, flickering endlessly as they swirled about him. He drew into himself, trying to stay away even though there was nowhere to escape. He knew he would never see his children in here, so how could the pain that awaited him outside his mind be any worse than being trapped in the swirling shades of black and gray? Staying here would kill him._

"_I want to leave!" he screamed. "I want to see my kids! I want to see my friends! I don't care what we have to do, I don't want this stuff in me anymore!"_

_YOU ARE A GOOD MAN, JACKSON. BRACE YOURSELF, AND KNOW THAT I AM SO VERY SORRY._

_Warm, soft yellow swirls of light shattered through the clouds, catching them by surprise, decimating every shadow in their path. The storm reared, and suddenly the roaring of thunder was there and _deafening_. Crushing pressure in his chest and his head made him writhe for a moment, but the clouds began to withdraw from the light and he willed it to push further and further away._

_The light became far too golden, and far too bright. Jack closed his eyes against it, lest his soul be blinded. And suddenly he was pulled _up_ by the center of his chest. He gasped…_

... and was cut short in the horrible, oil-laced pain that cut through his chest and throat. He didn't mean to, but a weak cry left him. He opened his eyes and everything shifted in those familiar wax waves. The voices around him were numerous and loud, and it did absolutely nothing for the roaring migraine that was trying to rip his skull apart.

But the one bright side to feeling so much pain you think you're going to pass out, is that everything starts running together. And so now it was just pain, and it didn't matter where it was, it was just there. They could probably push on his side all they wanted and he wouldn't feel more pain. There was one certainty in his mind though:

This wakeup call was worse than the Tesla coil.

"Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods," he heard himself muttering. He didn't like those words, but needed something weighty to say on every pained exhale. Couldn't let himself be heard screaming by the spirits he had secretly looked up to for centuries. That just wouldn't do.

It wasn't until he pulled away that Jack realized Sandy had been by his head that whole time. He wanted the golden man's company right back where it was, and he wanted it so badly that he actually whimpered. Someone was shushing at him the next moment, and it did help to calm him the tiniest bit.

But the pressure against his ribs, from the _inside_, writhing to get into his chest, lancing down his left arm… It hurt so badly that he had to move. Knowing it was darkness that Pitch had left in him made him want to fight against it even more. There were small, warm hands on his face, though, and he looked up and tried really hard to focus.

Tooth.

"Bite down on this," she was saying, and pressed something against his lips. He obeyed, was thankful when the object was small and soft. It pushed his tongue back, and he tried not to gag on his coughing breaths. Jack was suddenly very aware of one Guardian on either side of him – Bunny and Tooth – each holding down an arm and pressing down on his hips. He felt a little like he was being stretched out for execution.

North loomed over him then, and with a sinking, moaning lump in his throat, Jack knew what was about to be done. And North looked so _hurt_ that Jack couldn't bring himself to be mad at the man. The Guardian of Wonder mumbled something mournful in Russian, briefly resting a hand on Jack's heaving chest. Whatever he said, it didn't matter to Jack in that moment, he just knew he had to make them all understand he was as ready as he was going to be. He wanted to live. He wanted to see the kids again.

So he nodded. North choked on a humorless chuckle.

"Brave boy," he said. And he raised his right hand. Jack caught the glint of a weapon. Before he had a chance to feel the inevitable flash of fear, the weapon was gripped tighter.

And the dagger of Old Man Winter was plunged down upon him.

* * *

**AN: ... O_O;**

**...**

**I swear it was like that when I found it! I promise, I'm not trying to make your brain explode. (I'm laughing a little on the inside, though. Just a little.) Ok, I'll confess to absolutely loving this chapter, if ya'll promise not to send me to the funny farm, K? Because this chapter ends the way it does, I'm only waiting about 24 hours to post the next one. I may be cruel, but I'm not evil. ^_^ **

**And you guys... I checked my account the day after I posted **_**Oil**_**, and I cried. Seriously, I just about had an infarction right there in my desk chair, I was all T_T "omigoooosh the feeeeeeels!" Yes, yes I was. I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH! Ahem, hem... Your reviews have been so encouraging and uplifting to me, and I really can't thank you enough. You've made me feel like I'm a good author, and it's such a wonderful feeling to know that there are people out there (around the WORLD, how crazy is that?!) who enjoy the stories I want to share. Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are such a blessing to me!**

**So, feeling brave, I'm going to segue into a similar but different topic for a moment, because I'm shamelessly seeking your opinion here. I was thinking about writing another RoTG fic, but it would be an AU of a steampunk sort of nature. Very thorough plot and world description, of course, because I can't handle hanging threads. Any potential readers? Or am I just a nutter?**

**A HUGE thank you to all my reviewers: Bard of Chaos, RainyDayinAstrasia, Vampires United, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, ThatOneFan, LalaithoftheVine, Galimatias, Dragowolf, Josh, AmaraRae, DragonsFlame117, DragonflyonBreak, juniper294, Fumus000, Alaia Skyhawk, HalloweenCATcalls, hope is my life, Annie, My5tic-Lali, kyuubecky, angelfabeth, Soului, and of course all the Guests who found **_**Shadowed Victory**_** worthy of their reviews! **

**A special thank you, also to everyone who has followed, favorited, and taken the time to read. I'm compelled to say it again:**

**You complete me.**

**Stick around, the next update is just 24 hours away!**

**~mj**


	7. Blood and Games

Blood welled up on lily white skin - trickling across steel, pattering over frost-limned sheets. Wind howled against the winter fortress. Yetis piled against the boarded windows. Guardians paused. Sandman tensed. The swirling oil winds of darkness should have been lurching out of their youngest.

None came.

Jack wheezed, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Tooth covered her mouth and choked back a sob, and Bunny felt only pride that she was trying to be so strong. North looked horrified, frozen in place and so afraid that it scared the Pooka warrior.

Tch. He was already scared out of his wits. His rabbit instincts had his whole body trembling. He could feel his blood prickling through the fur of his arm and neck, and how his skin burned! He shook his head violently to free himself from the unmelting needles in his skin and growled through it. He held his ground, unwilling and unable to leave the others to this task.

He dared to glance at the damage done; had to breathe through his nose to keep from throwing up. North had frozen up, stiff with the shock of his task. With his huge hand clenching the handle of the dagger he refused to move, even though the blade was buried in Jack's flesh. Sandy was floating by the gasping Wonder Spirit the next moment, looking exhausted and haunted and… Bunny didn't know _what_, but he sincerely hoped that he hadn't caused Sandy to look that way when he had been shadowed.

The Sandman touched North's broad bicep gently and met his eyes, pulling his gaze away from the carnage beneath his hand. The dream maker kept his gaze, somehow reassuring without a hint of his usual smile. A tiny, golden hand set down on the end of the dagger handle, and Sandman's expression turned grim.

Bunnymund suddenly knew what was being done, and he had to look away. He focused with a frantic glint on Jack's sweaty face. Poor kid's jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood out in sharp relief on his pale skin. His eyes, still so very dark, were starting to lose focus. He was going into shock.

"Jack, mate, stay with me," Bunny called. He dared to lift a paw away from Jack's arm, using it to tap the side of the boy's face. "You're doin' ace, mate…"

Jack's wheezing groan made Bunny look back just in time to see and _hear_ the blade tap against the table beneath Jack's body. He coughed out a gag and tried to focus on the boy.

"Y-you're doing great, kiddo, just hang on. Within cooee now..." He brushed Jack's sweaty bangs from his forehead, so uncharacteristic of him, but it felt so necessary. "Come on, boyo. Stick around… You gotta look at me, Jack. Look at me."

In the background there was a _squelch_ and a clatter, and Bunny closed his eyes and wished in the same instant that he would someday be able to un-hear that horrible sound. He knew he never would. North threw the bloodied dagger across the room, and Bunny could not bring himself to be angry with the man for it.

"Well done, Jack, you did it," he praised, though his voice was shakier than he wanted. He tried to smile at the swimming navy blue-black gaze. Why weren't the shadows leaving him?! "Just focus on me a little longer, eh? Nearly there…"

Tooth was moving from her position on the other side, and the Pooka met her eyes.

"We need to roll him over," she said. "Tie his wrists to keep him steady."

It wasn't difficult. It seemed the winter spirit didn't have any fight left in him. Bunny didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. His instincts screamed for the latter. At the very least, the movements seemed to wake Jack up a bit.

"Hey, there you are," Bunny said as lightly as he could. "Let's get that bit out of your mouth, ey?" Bunny soon tossed the block of gauze to the floor, hoping there was no further need for it. He tied the ribbons carefully, softly saying anything and everything that came to mind – anything to keep Jack engaged in the real world. He glanced about while he prattled, eyes sharp, ears up, nose twitching.

The copper scent of blood was overpowering, and the burning tar smell was so much more prominent than it had been the night before. The yetis were causing a ruckus, shouting at each other as the wind warped the sturdy boards. Glass tinkled in from under the planks, the windows clearly shattered despite the protective aura of Santoff Claussen. North was probably happy for the distraction, getting away from the bench with a towel in his bloody hands, ordering his forces about in angry Russian. Tooth busied herself at Sandy's side, falling easily into the role of nurse.

With Sandy preparing to purge the invading darkness, Bunny was left with the task he was least prepared for: keeping Jack occupied. So he kept babbling and watched the Sandman work from the corner of his eye.

Blood flowed in steady rivulets from the new wound, staining Jack's belly and back with a sickening mix of crimson and coal. But the shadows were supposed to be _leaping_ from the boy – that's what they had done when Bunny was purified. His shoulder throbbed at the memory.

Sandy pressed and kneaded at the swirling patterns under Jack's skin. Thick ooze bubbled up from the stab wound, blocking the blood's natural flow from both entry and exit. With a grimace that spoke clearly of the mental scarring to come, he pushed his fingers in, digging globs of putrid poison out of Jack's body and pulling a startled gasp from the boy. Golden tendrils of sand attacked the tiny pieces of evil, purifying it in his clenched fists before he went back for more, sending small puffs of sand into the body before him.

This caught Jack's attention far more than Bunny's meandering words. He jerked at Sandy's intruding fingers and grains of magic, trying to curl on himself. The Pooka held him still and shushed him, soothed him the best he could. It pained him to see Jack's eyes more aware now than they had been all morning. In the midst of it all, E. Aster Bunnymund could not understand it. Couldn't understand why the darkness still clung to a spirit so light and forgiving. Couldn't understand how they could possibly help him if the darkness wasn't first _running_ from him. He looked at Sandy with pleading eyes.

It took the man a moment to notice, looking up while Tooth handed him another clean towel. His brow cinched with such pain, such guilt, and he shrugged. He could only do what he could do; the rest was up to the Guardian of Fun.

But purification was not taking place, and they didn't know why. The darkness had to be forcibly expelled from the body by a source of goodness and light. There was no good reason the negative forces shouldn't be running from the boy – Jack was practically _made_ of light itself. How else could he have survived three centuries of solitude with his center intact?

Bunny's ears perked up at the brain-numbing epiphany crept just beyond his reach.

In his most desperate moments, centuries ago, what had he done to make it work? All he could have done in his state of weakness was hope that it worked. _The Guardian of Hope practiced Hope._

That was it. _He knew!_

Jack's center had to be engaged for this to work. He had to have Fun. Bunny tapped at his cheeks to hold his attention. "Jack, listen. Listen! We uh…" Yeah, fun in the middle of all this? "We're gonna play a game. Think you can stay awake long enough to have some fun?"

Jack's whole body was trembling, and he looked so _scared_. Bunny tried to smile at him, taking tied hand in paw and squeezing gently. Sandy glanced desperately at the Pooka from where he worked, elbow deep in blood and shadows. The expression on his face was quite clear:

_Hurry. Hurry._

There was a shout and a terrible screeching of wood. A board burst from its hold against the wall. Frigid breeze cut a path above Bunny's ears, the wind livid but unable to invade the yeti-heavy windows further. They had to hurry, or the jet stream itself would descend and tear the Pole apart in its anger. All they needed was a glimmer. Just a chuckle. One light-hearted thought. The tiniest trick.

Surely, Bunny could have fun with the kid for thirty seconds…

He untied the restraints, the satin ribbon slipping between rough paw pads he was shaking so badly. He spoke quietly as he unwound the material from Jack's wrists, and for the life of him he had no idea where his calm voice came from.

"I think a hand game would be good. Do you know any?"

Jack stared at him a moment, then nodded. Bunny had expected him to say no, with all those years of solitude. But he had picked up the string that Jack had had a sister in his mortal days, if his fevered mumblings the night before were anything to go by. The boy grasped at the Pooka's arms once his hands were free, hardly able to squeeze but needing the contact. It made Bunny's skin burn terribly, but he ignored the slow creeping of more ice needles up his arms. Tears welled up in Jack's eyes and his face changed. He let out a cry of pain as his body shifted under Sandy's duress. Bunny saw golden specks swirl inside Jack's darkened irises before retreating, but the darkness remained. Sandy couldn't do much more.

"I know one," Bunny said, "how 'bout My Mother Said?" He squeezed Jack's shoulder, almost roughly, when his gaze began to slide. It worked, making his eyes flare open as Bunny's paw pressured the tattoos of soul-sucking ick curling along his arm. "Come on, just one round?"

"I'm shaking," Jack gasped.

"It's fine," Bunny assured, maybe too quickly. "I'll do the clapping, just hold your hands out."

Jack tried. He _tried_ to extend his reach. Another cry cut him short, and Bunny caught his wrists before he could curl in on himself.

"Ok. It's ok." Bunny soothed. Jagged frost crawled up the backs of his paws, cutting cruelly into his pads and making them dry enough to crack after just a few seconds of contact. The aggressive, uncontrolled behavior of Jack's power was becoming too much; the Pooka couldn't risk being infected by darkness again. He didn't want to let go, but he had to.

And a thought struck him.

"Hey," he said, catching Jack's attention again with a brighter smile. He reached out for water pitcher and dumped its clear contents on the floor. Holding out the empty vessel, he said, "How 'bout a frost trick? Can I help this time?"

Something lighted in Jack's eyes – a spark that drove the darkness back a tiny bit and let the blue show through. Though the boy didn't smile, he reached out trembling, gray-tipped fingers and touched the glass. Ice spread instantly over the surface, its patterns jagged and sharp compared to the decorative ferns the kid usually wielded. He was really fighting, and Bunny knew he had to keep things simple. This one trick might even be too much…

There was more yelling by the windows, the slamming of tools and the frantic garbling mixing with very angry Ruski. Bunny paid it no heed, but his resolve cracked when Jack let out another pained cry – Sandy was resorting to harder and harder gestures to get the darkness out.

The Spirit of Hope swallowed his rising fear and stuck his finger in the frost, ignoring the sudden, deep itch as his paw pad cracked.

"How 'bout a snowball, ey?" he said, melting a circular path in the ice dust. "Nuthin' betta 'n' a snowball fight whin ya feel blue." His accent was getting too thick; he'd have to reign in his emotions if he hoped for a half-lucid spirit boy to understand his words. He wanted to cry. He wanted to _mourn_. But if these were Jack's last moments, the Easter Bunny would be damn sure he spent those moments smiling.

Jack didn't say anything about Bunny's simple circle, and for that the Pooka was glad. Rather, the child – young man, _warrior_ – pulled at the image as if to lift it from the glass. He struggled. He stopped.

"Come on, Jack, you can do it," Bunny encouraged him, watching him try to catch his breath. He looked so tired. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sandy straighten with a grim expression, pleading with him. He could do no more until the darkness released; they were losing him.

"I bet Jamie loves this trick," Bunny hurried his words, trying to keep his eyes on Jack's face. "Do it again, ya show pony, just one more time." There was a hint of a smirk at the corner of Jack's mouth, and he reached out again. Bunny lost track of what he was saying. His mind whittled down to the all-encompassing _don't stop talking, make him do it, make it fun._

In the span of a miniscule eternity, the frosty ball came away from the glass, bounced on some invisible surface, and launched into the air, puffing into a dusty smattering of snow fall. Bunny praised him, praised him like he hadn't praised anything in his life – if it kept Jack alive, he'd keep doing it. Jack watched him askance, his grin growing into a small smile. Through his exhaustion and falling eyelids, through his pain and gasping breath, he let out a tiny, near-silent chuckle.

His body convulsed.

"Out. Out! _Get out!_" Bunny shouted. There was the briefest pause, and then Tooth was barking the same order, zipping to the door and commanding the exodus. Yetis shoved to leave the room, dragging North with them. Tooth slammed the heavy wood shut; the click of North's magic locked it from the inside. Sandy and Bunny rolled Jack onto his back. The boy's body arched away from the table with another convulsion, and though Sandy tried to shove Bunny away the Pooka refused to budge. It didn't matter that the fleeing of darkness could hurt him so close.

In the briefest moment before the primal evil began to fly, Bunny came to a stark, heart-wrenching realization. Old Man Winter had done this for him, knowing the danger of it. And just as Bunny would gladly sacrifice his life to save this boy from insipid shadows, so the Old Man had made his choice. In that moment, Bunny found peace.

And the darkness _fled_ Jack's body. Burst from him in such a torrent that Bunny thought the force itself was _afraid_. The outpouring of golden sand beside him caused chaotic swirls of two opposing forces. Their world was rocked by the explosion it caused, and Bunny's awareness faded to black.

* * *

The explosion was torrential. Tooth's ears rang with the aftermath of it. She stirred, knowing she hadn't truly lost consciousness. She still worried about how much time she may have lost. It was when she tried to turn over on the stone floor that she realized she has having trouble breathing. The thick door of the Purification Room lay atop her, crushing her wings against the floor. With a furious grunt, she shoved at the wood, forcing it to slide away from her just enough to let her up.

The world spun when she stood. She caught herself with a deep breath and shook her head clear. The ringing in her ears was too loud for her to hear much else. She didn't care. She glanced about the hallway just long enough to locate North, who was picking himself up off the floor.

She ran into the room, trusting the Wonder Guardian to follow her. The wind howled angrily against her, ruffling her plumage rudely and swirling about her head. She batted at it, and it did not fight her hands – the wind was worried, not angry. She brushed the tears of stinging cold from her eyes and searched the room. She found Bunnymund first.

"Oh, Aster," she breathed, running clumsily to his crumpled form. He slumped haphazardly against the wall, and all Tooth could think was how Old Man Winter had looked so similar, before crumbling to black ash under her fingers.

"Bunny? Aster, can you hear me?"

He stirred, groaning loudly, and Tooth couldn't decide whether to laugh, cry, yell at him, or just scream.

"You scared me to death," she admonished instead while she helped him sit up straight. "I thought I was going to damage my wisdom teeth, I was clenching my jaw so hard!"

"Did it work?" Bunny mumbled. His eyes darted unsteadily about the room. "Where are they?"

The Purification Room was an unholy mess. Shattered glass, wood splinters, drifts of snow brought in by the wind, and golden dust mixing with it. The work bench was knocked over - empty. Tooth tried not to focus on the blood spray around it. The shutters of Santoff Claussen were piled against the wall opposite from the windows. They rattled with the winds frantic movement.

North trudged through the mess and lifted away the broken planks, heavy and huge just like the rest of the polar fortress. A tuft of golden hair sparkled under the debris.

"Sandy!" he gasped, pulling away the rest of the wood. Sandy sat against the wall, slumped forward over Jack's still body. He stirred and cast about with half-closed eyes. He looked half-conscious, gasping with exertion and fatigue. He was covered in Jack's blood. The youngest Guardian was draped over his lap, his head resting, pale but peaceful, against Sandy's belly. The elder man's fingers combed through tangled white locks. The wind ruffled his hair, swirled about the boy.

"Sandy, are you all right?" North asked. Sandy slowly looked up. And then he smiled. His nod was firm, final. It had worked.

Jack Frost had been purified.

Now his physical needs had to be looked after. Sandy gestured at the boy, indicating he should be taken. North obeyed, lifting the boy as if he were a Faberge egg.

"Go with him," Bunny croaked. Tooth looked him up and down – exhausted, trembling, fur of his forearms and the right side of his neck stained a wet pink from his freeze burns – and quirked a skeptical brow. It was hard to tell where his blood stopped and Jack's blood began on his filthy fur.

"I'm fine," he insisted. "I'll look after Sandy. You go help North with the snowball."

She considered. Then she nodded. When she had a moment, she would call her little girl, Mehndi, back from Tooth Palace – the one who liked Bunny so much. The little one could watch after him, just in case. As North glided from the chamber barking orders for a new room, she watched Bunny rise gingerly from the floor. His eyes were fixed on Sandy, but he gripped her arm as if remembering something.

"Hey, no matter how bad he looks, no stitches. Just pressure bandages until Sandy or I say so. You know the drill though, so..." He was rambling and she knew it, distant and half-shut down just to function.

"Aster," she ventured. He looked at her, and she wasn't sure of everything she could potentially read in his spring green eyes. She smiled weakly, and felt a little like she could break him in that moment if she wasn't careful. How had it all come to this? "The worst is over now. Jack's wounds aren't life-threatening for an immortal like him."

Bunny shook his head. "I know. I'm not worried about the physical damage anymore. For any of us."

Tooth understood what he meant. This wasn't just a horrible, gut-wrenching experience for Jack. It had been terrible for all of them. Jack had certainly had to bear the brunt of it, and his recovery wouldn't be easy. But they all bore marks from this. It would take time to work through it. They would have to knit themselves into the semblance of a family if they wanted to come through the aftermath of this ordeal unscathed. Well... _Less_ scathed.

For lack of anything poignant to say, she squeezed his shoulder and left to follow North down the hall. All she had to do was follow the trail of blood spatter to the new room.

* * *

Sandy looked like a beached whale.

It was an absolutely horrible analogy. Totally inappropriate.

It made Bunny giggle a little bit.

Chalking it up to adrenaline, the Pooka hobbled over to the elder Guardian, certain that he looked no better. He flopped unceremoniously next to him and leaned back against the wall. They stayed that way for a while, basking in the glow of a job well done.

From one victory to another, he supposed. He would have been happy to stick to just one. He didn't have much time to follow that road, though, as yetis started piling into the room, picking up salvageable tinctures, sweeping up glass, and gathering splintered wood.

"Well, mate," he hazarded, "if anyone's earned a nap here, I'd say it's you."

Sandy finally looked up at him, a tired smile crinkling his features. But his expression morphed into concern. A ticking clock formed above his head, haphazard and nearly see-through, there was so little sand. The featureless form of a sleeping child appeared next. Bunny shook his head.

"You're in no shape to leave, Sandy. Without an active Boogeyman, the kids can manage a day or two of making their own good dreams."

Sandy thumped his head back against the wall and sighed. It was hard for Bunny to believe that just a little over a day previous, he had thought the Sandman gone, and dreams extinguished. Thirty-six hours ago, Bunny had endured the excruciating pain of degeneration, North walked like an old man, and Tooth's magnificent wings couldn't carry her.

It hit the Pooka like a ton of bricks: If Sandy hadn't returned they would have certainly lost Jack as well. He shook his head, promising himself he would sort that particular epiphany out, along with everything else, on a different day.

"Well," he said again, stretching sore muscles. "Let's shake a leg, ey? Get ourselves cleaned up before we get some shuteye."

They rose from the floor like a couple of old men. Sandy walked beside him. _Walked. _Bunny wondered for a moment how the dream maker could hope to continue his duties around the earth when he wasn't strong enough to get his feet off the ground. When he asked as much, he got a barely-there punch to his good leg.

"Oi! I'm only askin'," he laughed. Sandy dipped his head with a smile, watching the ground as they walked.

He was looking down the hall an instant later. Bunny followed his gaze, noticed the blood spatter that led like a trail of bread crumbs to a room not far off.

"He's in good hands, mate," he was quick to say. "If he's anything like I was, he'll be out like a light for a couple days." He guided Sandy in the opposite direction, toward their guest suites. "Besides, we gotta take care of our sad selves before we're of any more help to him."

Sandy smiled sadly at him, nodding his consent. There was something else in his expression, though. Something that was heavy, foreboding, even. Bunny thought better of asking about what was running through Sandy's mind. Instead, he silently promised himself he'd keep the dream maker under his proverbial microscope. When he made his move, Bunny would make sure he was hot on his trail.

* * *

**AN: This has to be one of my favorite chapters. Because I am a sick, twisted (insert expletive here). Yes, yes I am. Actually, I like it because of Bunny's shining moment with Jack. I can actually say I'm proud of how the plot has worked out up to this point. It feels solid and reasonable to me. That's always an accomplishment, I think. I debated ending the chapter with a bad cliffhanger and posting the last two sections in the next installment, but you've all been so supportive and patient, and I've stretched out the climax over... what, three chapters? And on that note, thanks for not threatening to kill me along the way! **

**I did use the term "Ruski" in here. It's technically a slang word for Russian (in regards to anything Russian - its people, language and culture), but I researched it before using it, and far as I can tell it is not considered derogatory. However, if it offends anyone, just PM me, and I will change it. ^_^**

**The long road to recovery is on its way! Hope you enjoyed. Prepare for much peer counseling in the future, for this whole situation was just (insert expletive) up. We'll also be seeing more from Jack's head space coming up. Hooray for fan-fabricated past lives! Also, I feel an action-packed sub-plot bubbling on the back burner, which I will carefully thread into the existing story if it pans out right. I promise not to let things get too boring. **

**In response to last chapter's AN about the AU in question…**

**O_O**

**I was expecting a few "yeah sure" responses, but every reviewer who responded to the question seemed interest because it's me writing it. You guys are amazing. You really are. You blew my mind! So, I have a little treat for ya'll: I'll be posting the prologue and cover art (by me!) in the next few days. Keep in mind the writing will be rough yet, and there is still much plotting and writing to be done before it's actually ready to post, which will take some time. There will be more art for it in the future, if my muse cooperates. Thanx again, ya'll!**

**Special thank-you's to my reviewers, because you feed my soul: ****Galimatias, DragonflyonBreak, Alaia Skyhawk, Bard of Chaos, AmaraRae, Shur'tugal Daughter of Artemis, EpicDetour9, ThatOneFan, scrubslova, Magiccatprincess, hypercell, Fleury's Apprentice 70, TeddyBear98, Soului, RainyDayinAstrasia, Wragziez, Vampires United, savedbygrace94, fishy girly, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, Smoochynose, KatFromHell, LostInWonderland72, Catflower Queen, Annie, Guest, Effugere, Dragowolf, RastIsHot, kyuubecky, hope is my life, DragonsFlame117, Emminyan, the-ice-cold-alchemist, and there may be a few I'm missing (sorry!) because the reviews keep rolling in! Remember that time I cried? It happened again! Thank you, thank you, THANK you! **

**See you in three!**

**~mj**


	8. Invisible Filth

If North had ever experienced being too tired to think, he was too tired to remember it. In that moment, he really didn't care either way. He wanted to sleep – was _too tired_ to sleep – and it set him in an empty state of hyper-aware jitters.

He stared down at his mug of chocolate, cradled between his hands on the breakfast nook table. He watched the tiny milk bubbles swirl about. The lazy movement was mesmerizing, and he lost track of how long he sat like that.

There was not a single thought in his shower-damp head. Not one.

There was a numbness in his chest. He knew it well. It would have to be addressed, eventually. First, he needed to indulge the emptiness, just for a little while. It felt good to be a blank slate, to just… _be_ for a brief time.

He felt like a deflated balloon.

…There was a yeti hair in his cocoa.

It ruined his trance. He was suddenly _livid_. Seeing red rage-y anger flooded him with the break in his nothingness. North was driven to stand, fueled deep in his chest to hurl the mug and its contents across the kitchen. The shattering splash against the cupboards was fascinating, and it did absolutely _nothing_ to soothe him. He needed to yell, needed to break something else, something more.

For moon's sake, he wanted a battle he could _see_!

The feeling fled him almost as quickly as it had arrived. The filmy rubber feeling snapped back in place, and he flopped into his chair with all his weight. The wood groaned beneath his grunted landing, and he didn't blame it. He was too heavy for himself, too. He leaned forward, placing elbows on knees, and cradled his head, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes until it hurt. There was just enough discomfort in his brain to keep him from zoning out again.

That had been the second ruined mug in as many days. There would likely be more in the near future. The yetis might as well restock the crockery…

He needed hot chocolate.

He went for the eggnog instead. As he poured himself a hefty glass, he eyed the cupboard in the corner. He wasn't staring at the rich wood grain, but the rarely-touched vodka that sat behind it. He had always been able to hold his liquor among his Cossak fellows, and the temptation to slip into something age-old and familiar was like trying to ignore the magnificence of the Russian palace itself.

But he had never, _ever _been weak enough to become a drunkard.

Nicholas St. North turned away from the kitchen with his eggnog, feeling the secret desperation to get away from the stupidity of his struggle. So he went to find something manly to do. Surely, there were tasks to be done in his fortress – repairs to be made, a cliff-side landing strip to reinforce, and so on.

Yes. He would deal with his torturous actions the same way he always dealt with unrest:

Bossing his yetis around until they screamed.

* * *

Bunny literally crawled out of the bathtub. He hunched on all fours, feeling distant and buzzy and just a little bit traumatized. He let himself stare at the floor beneath him while the air cooled his dripping body. The shiver sent goose-pimples across his skin, trying to stand his fur on end without success. When the water started pooling between his paw pads, he thought it time to move.

He shook himself violently from ears to tail, sending sprays of water in every direction in the bathroom. He waited just long enough for the room to stop spinning, and then he shimmied again. And he waited. And he did it again. He did it until he thought he might vomit or send his brain tumbling out his ears, and still he couldn't seem to get the invisible filth off.

It would be a long time until he felt clean again. Memories old and new, actions recent and long past crept along the edges of his mind like rabid wolves. They waited for a sign of his weakness – waited for the fatigue to break him down.

He took a towel to his arms to ward it all away, and he scrubbed at both forearms and right bicep with a vigor that set his damaged skin screaming and tingling at the same time. The burn of it was the crawly type that got under one's nerves. It made him squirmy, and he growled more than once at absolutely nothing. In a way, it felt good.

It felt like retribution.

It wasn't healthy to feel like he needed it. Warriors endured pain, they didn't indulge in it. So he tried to shrug it off and move on. The Guardians had conquered one of the most strenuous rough patches they'd ever hit.

Barely a day ago, they had saved the world and protected the children.

Barely an hour ago, they had protected perhaps the most powerful child in the world. It had been gruesome and traumatizing. It had been bloody and torturous. It had been half-blind and archaic. None of that changed the outcome:

Jack Frost lived.

There was no monster to fight, or enemy to seal away, or death to mourn.

Bunnymund told himself he'd be happy with the results when the younger spirit was annoying the living daylights out of him again. He would be happy when he could be sure he hadn't scarred the kid for life. He would be happy when it was known whether Jack would stay amongst his new family of Guardians after everything they'd had to do.

The paranoia was stupid, he was sure. But it was such a human thing – so much a part of humanity, in fact, that Pooka's felt it sometimes, too. And now there was a new, ever-so-quiet, nearly-nonexistent fear creeping up in his chest. Had he dreamt their success? Was he in a delusional dream-state? This fear, however silly, needed an answer.

With barely a care the warrior pilfered a roll of gauze from the floor of the ruined Purification Room, scurried back to his quarters, and wrapped his burns. He left his neck alone – too much of a bother. He skipped the healing ointments – it would take too much time. He wrapped his arms and his knee, and he left his room without so much as pulling a brush through his fur.

He just couldn't be bothered.

Bunny three-stepped down the hall, favoring his knee. He felt a bone-chilling fatigue begin to settle in now that the adrenaline rush was long gone. He would soon crash and sleep for only the moon knew how long, and before he did he had to check.

He followed the blood spatter, yet to be scrubbed out of the floor.

He had to make sure that Jack's survival had not been a cruel dream.

* * *

The next few hours after the purification were classified, in her mind, as a much quieter brand of hell. But no one was dying, so that was a start.

Toothiana worried for all the men, though.

After helping her staunch Jack's wounds with pressure bandages, North changed into fresh clothes and practically dove into the repair work of his fortress. He worked with a quiet ferocity that screamed of his mental unrest. Were he a lesser man, Tooth wouldn't have been surprised if the eggnog he was constantly imbibing was spiked with vodka.

Thank Manny he was not a lesser man.

Sandy had all but disappeared into his guest suite, and she did not see hair nor grain of the man. What had her worrying her bottom lip with perfect teeth was the mess he had left in the hallway. On her way to her own room for a bath, she spotted the elves sweeping up a hefty pile of dead-still, blood-heavy sand. If she didn't know better, Tooth would have thought Sanderson had shed his sand robes down to his bare skin right there in the hallway and abandoned the precious grains.

She would learn much later that it was exactly what he had done.

Bunny worried her the most. After soaking her beautiful plumage for two hours and still feeling dirty, Tooth wandered back to Jack's make-shift ward to check on him. She found the Pooka there, fur peeked in all directions from his recent bath, while he checked over the winter spirit. She stayed unnoticed in the doorway, watching while she half-consciously sent a mental call to her sentinel girls. Mehndi, who favored the Pooka, responded instantly, sending a little vibration of concern and excitement into the back of Tooth's mind. Baby Tooth and three others responded as well; the rest of her winged army would carry on with their collecting and palace clean-up duties.

That taken care of, Tooth watched the Guardian of Hope, telling herself she wasn't really spying as long as she was in plain sight. But Bunny didn't take notice. He scrutinized the pressure wrap about Jack's middle with an expert eye, crossing his arms tightly over his chest to keep from touching the pinkening bandages. He checked his heart rate (sure to be thready) with a gentle grip on his wrist. Measured his erratic breathing with a feather-light paw on his chest. Finally, he checked the boy's temperature.

At least, that's what it looked like at first.

But his paw lingered, swept Jack's hair back. And he kept brushing through his snowy locks, just watching over the spirit. His ears tilted at a mournful slant. He slouched on the bedside stool. His nose hardly twitched at all.

It was a moment of tenderness so rare, so private, and so concentrated, Tooth felt a little traitorous watching it.

This was one shadowed warrior relating to another.

This was the birth of unbreakable brotherhood.

It needed no words, and it needed no intrusion.

Tears tracked steadily down her cheeks, and she felt no shame in letting them fall. She backed away from the room without a sound and left the boys to their privacy. She sent her girls a message to meet her in her private suite.

And then she curled up on the soft, suspended bed, kicked off the wall to start it swinging, and cried herself into a brief, restless nap.

* * *

_Jackson was cold. _

_He was _freezing_. _

_He would have done anything to get someone to hand him a blanket. But everybody kept making him wet and cold instead. They kept wiping his forehead, his arms, his legs. They touched their burning hands on him so briefly. It hurt, but it felt good more than it discomforted. He was already in so much pain. His chest hurt like it had recently been emptied. His side felt… he had no idea, but it was the epitome of wrong._

_Was it so much to ask for a little warmth?_

_When Jackson thought about it – and that took a long time – he was certain he was very sick. He was also certain it was time to get better. That he should be better already._

_He couldn't bring himself to listen to reason. He was stuck. He was pained and he was cold and he was stuck. He just wanted to be warm. There was someone in the room, and he wanted to ask for a blanket. Wanted to ask if the bloodletting had worked, and if he would get better now. Was the bad blood gone?_

_There was someone in the room, and he wanted to see them. He tried opening his eyes to look, but it made him feel sick, so he kept them closed. He'd been blind forever! He supposed perhaps he would have to be blind a little longer. _

_There was someone in the room, and he wanted to feel their burning touch. He wanted to feel like there was hope for him in all the madness he couldn't remember. He just knew there was madness. Horrible, pain-filled madness where the wind screamed…? He didn't know what he was thinking, so he stuck to what he knew: he wanted to feel the burning touch. _

_There was someone in the room, and he needed their comfort. He wanted the contact, because it had been years since he'd had it. This made no sense at all, because he could feel the fresh straw mattress beneath his back, and smell the chalk of Elli's slate board. He could hear the crackle of the living room fire and smell the sweet burn of Pa's pipe. He was in his family's house, but it had been years since he'd been touched. _

_It was what it was. It was wrong and it was right. It was perfectly reasonable confusion. _

_There was someone in the room, and he silently begged for their touch, because his voice wouldn't work through breaths too shallow to let him speak. But then he was finally touched, and it burned his wrist. It burned and it was wonderful, and he wondered if maybe being cold was a good thing just so he could enjoy the burning touch of every person who cared. _

_That was food for thought. He would have to try making sense of it later, because he was certain it was a very clever thought. But the burning touch was on his chest now, and it made him think of so many other things at once that he had to sift through them one at a time._

_The touch felt like family, but it wasn't Pa or Ma or Ellie. It was rough and too-warm and so very gentle. It felt like Big Brother, but Samuel had died many years ago, when Jackson was young like Elli. It was Big Brother's touch, but it wasn't Big Brother's hand. And as the touch lingered on his forehead and tickled through his hair, the strangest thing came to mind._

_Paws._

_He didn't understand it at all. He thought maybe that was okay, too, because all that desperate want was fading away. The want and the fear were being replaced with trust and safety and hope. He still hurt. Good Lord Almighty, did he hurt. _

_But the paws kept him safe. The paws made the cold acceptable. The paws made him think of his family in sepia tones and sad longing, but they also made him think of bright feathers and white-bearded laughter and golden smiles and furry gray races._

_One family had been put to rest, and a new family had embraced him. As confusing as all these thoughts were, Jackson thought maybe it was ok to be sad and happy at the same time. Just like it was ok to rest for a while between one family and another. _

_So he settled back in his straw-filled bed from a distant dream, and thought of the family that waited for him when the pain faded. _

* * *

He was still short of breath. That wasn't a good sign. Neither was the tight cinching in his chest, but that was an emotional problem, not a physical one.

Sanderson imagined it must be what a heart attack felt like. In all his many centuries of Guardianship, he had rarely done something to warrant such an overwhelming amount of guilt. It always felt a little bit like he was dying.

_The child lives_, he admonished himself. He didn't expect it to make him feel any better, and it didn't.

Sandy shifted in the bathtub. The sound of the moving water was the loudest he had been in decades (if you didn't count the elf incident) and it grated against his quiet nature. He had been soaking for exactly two and a half hours, if his keen sense of time hadn't been thrown off by the morning's events. He recognized the sinking fear of never being clean again, and he knew it had nothing to do with physical filth.

He rubbed at his face with a wet hand and shook his head at the ceiling, boggled at the number of rarities that had occurred in the last few days. Almost all of those events were _good things_. But every single one of them was traumatizing in some way – if not for him, then for others. He just could not make his mind see the positive effects.

Leaning back in the water, Sanderson lifted his hands to stare at them. His physical eyes saw pale-gold skin just starting to prune. His mind's eye saw blood-covered digits that had caused countless cries of pain. Sand whirled weakly around the claw feet of the tub, but did little more than make a agitated swirling pattern against the stone floor.

No amount of enchanted sand could scrub the images from his brain. Images clear as crystal, just like the day they were formed: a day centuries ago, and a day that was not even over yet.

The force – the strength of his own hands – he used to press Aster face-down on a tipped stone slab in the middle of Stonehenge. The same force pressed hard against Jack's body to get tar-thick blackness to ooze from fresh wounds.

The instant explosion of evil that fled from the Pooka the moment the Old Man's dagger pierced his flesh. The horrifying nothingness while Jack bled from brand new stab wounds – an entry and an exit.

Forcing his hand against Aster's shoulder to kill the shadows before they could rip the warrior in two. Shoving his fingers _into_ Jack to fish the gummy darkness out of his body when it refused to leave him.

Sandy closed his eyes against his own mind. He tried to recall how he had managed to ever look Aster in the eye after his ordeal, and he wondered how he would ever manage to meet Jack's crystalline gaze again. It seemed like an impossible feat.

And there was suddenly a beyond-warm feeling spreading through his chest. It made him gasp, made a jolt of electric-hot tingles blossom behind his sternum. It felt like his heart had been asleep, and it was waking up again. He felt a sudden rush of calm energy – a healing balm for his frayed nerves.

This wasn't dream energy, but resting energy. It was the energy of safety and healing. He hadn't realized it was missing until it was suddenly there. His center was engaged – not by children, but by a Guardian. Golden tendrils danced about the bath in a perfect dome of filigrees, caressing his hair and nestling in where it had been washed out. Once-dirty grains rose dry and strong from the water, tickling his wrists and curling about his forearms. And then it tugged a little.

He had to check. His own center was telling him to check.

He wanted to sob, wanted to break down and cry right there in the cloudy bath water and start the healing of his soul with the shedding of his tears. He sucked in a deep breath instead, steadying his core and gathering all the gumption he could just to move. He braced himself on either side of the tub and rose, letting the sand caress him, dry him off and clothe him. It lifted him from the water, cradled him and welcomed him as if he had been gone for ages. In reality, he had only been weakened beyond wielding the grains for a few hours, but it felt like an eternity now that it was over.

Properly collected now, Sandy drifted through his guest rooms and cast about the hallway. He clung to the doorway for a moment, letting his feet touch the cold slate floor in a rush of dizzy weakness. He was not recovered enough to defy gravity just yet, it seemed. With good reason, too. So, with a creeping tingle of nervousness, Sanderson walked down the hall.

Jack's new room wasn't hard to find. The blood spatter still hadn't been cleaned up. That shoved the heart-clenching guilt back into place and sent unwelcome images flashing through his mind. His was a unique sort of guilt, he thought, for he had orchestrated this entire ordeal. He could only hope he had done the job properly, the way Old Man Winter had taught him to.

A glance in the room stopped him in the doorway and sent a fresh wave of calm energy through him. His regret over what had to be done was incredible, but what met his eyes very nearly made everything ok again. Tears welled up in golden eyes, and he let them. A tiny smile lifted some of the weight off his heart.

He could feel it strongly from the archway. The resting energy that had jolted him out of his sinking sorrow did indeed belong to Jack. Even though the boy looked like death, and his breath was raspy, and his bandages were already bleeding through, his energy and expression spoke of safety and trust, of rest and recuperation. The reason why was obvious.

Aster slouched over the side of the bed. Clearly exhausted, the fur-mussed rabbit had settled his head on one folded arm against the mattress, using the other to comb his claws gently through Jack's hair. He struggled to stay awake enough to continue his task, but he was losing that battle. He found new vigor, though, whenever Jack's breath rattled in his throat. Every audible sound from the boy made Aster's eyes a little more aware, and sent one ear or another shifting to better hear, and made his nose twitch a few times, taking in the air to register any changes.

Sandy had to marvel at Aster's tenacious care, though it worried him just a little that perhaps his friend wouldn't get the rest he needed. Tired green eyes shifted to look at him in that moment, and a regretful smile flitted across thin lips. Sanderson tried to smile back, and wandered silently into the room.

"Is he resting?" Aster mumbled quietly, voice low and raspy with a mixture of things: exhaustion, emotion, caution…

But Sandy found he could finally smile in something close to genuine gladness as he nodded his head. Jack Frost had survived, and he was resting now. It was more than he had dared to hope for in a short time. Now it was time for everyone else to rest. There would be much bonding and healing to do for everyone's wellbeing.

It was a long road to closure, but knowing they would travel the road as a family made it a much easier prospect to bear. And somehow, Sandy just knew that they were family now.

After all this, what else could they be?

So he found himself smiling a little wider, and took comfort in his eyelids growing heavy. He lifted himself from the floor, sat near Aster's curled arm, and placed a gentle hand on the Pooka's scruffy head. It would be worth the energy to let him hear the message he wanted to convey. So he did a rare thing – he touched Aster's mind for the second time in their existence.

_JACKSON DREAMS OF TWO FAMILIES_, said he, and his voice rumbled across the warrior's mind like comforting monsoon thunder across the plains, promising life and good fortune. _ONE IN FOND RECOLLECTION, THE OTHER IN HOPES FOR THE FUTURE. _HOPE_, ASTER, THAT YOU HAVE GIVEN HIM__. _

Aster tried to bury his face in the crook of his arm, ears falling heavy with what was sure to be a myriad of emotions he didn't know what to do with. And Sandy was drawn to do what he did best.

_REST NOW, ASTER. _He soothed a few grains of sand over the rabbit's forehead, watched him relax and start to drift. _JACKSON WILL NEED A BIG BROTHER WHEN HE WAKES._

* * *

**So this ended up being a transition chapter, but it turns out we kinda needed it after all that excitement. So, I tried to make it as interesting as possible. This particular chapter was not part of the original write-out, but the plot really needed this since the whole thing didn't get much of a rest, and there are concepts here that weren't covered originally. So this chapter is actually only a day or so old, hence the late update (given time for proper editing and grammar checks.)**

**Huge shout-out to Galimatias for all the help and inspiration in smoothing out this chapter. She put up with a grumpy and frustrated mj on really short notice, and was a huge helping hand. Thanks, Gal! **

**I just want to thank everyone for falling into my insidious trap. ^_^ There were several reviews that expressed worry of Bunny possibly dying. I would never have the heart to kill off one of my favorites (at least not in this particular plot line), but I wanted it to feel like a real possibility. It worked! By letting me know your fears, you also let me know that my writing was effective. Thank you!**

**My head space is telling me there's one more mini-climax coming somewhere in the near future for certain, now. There will also be recovery angst and prank-pulling. Hooray for pranks!**

**Thanks to all my reviewers: Wragziez, Smoochynose, KatFromHell, kyuubecky, savedbygrace94, RaistIsHot, hope is my life, MintLeafeon, My5tic-Lali, EpicDetour9, Alaia Skyhawk, RedKetchup, Guest, Bard of Chaos, Magiccatprincess, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, RainyDayinAstrasia, ThatOneFan, DragonflyonBreak, Catflower Queen, FrostFan, Rachel07, juniper294, NinjaDino721, Dragowolf, Crystal di Angelo, roarlikethunder, Annie, TeddyBear98, Katie, IstariannaCrudgo!**

**And of course a special thanks to all who have favorited, followed, and taken the time to read this growing brain child of mine. You give me warm fuzzies.**

**Thanks for sticking around!**

**~mj**


	9. Matron

Toothiana cradled her fairies in her hands. They watched her quietly, somberly, as she sniffled. She felt ashamed for letting her girls see her this way, but she just couldn't hold herself back after everything. There were times when she wanted so badly to be more like the boys – able to lose themselves in their work, cut off their emotions if only for a brief while to let the turmoil bubble down into something manageable. And, sometimes, decide not to touch it again, and tuck it away in a corner until it reared its ugly head.

But when she really thought about it, she decided maybe wanting such a thing was a horrible idea. How awful to try caging one's own emotions without letting it roil in the secret confines of privacy. Her fellow Guardians were miserable and sick with guilt – she could see it on them as plainly as the enamel on every tooth she collected. It coated them in a hard, nigh-unbreakable shell, but unlike enamel, theirs was a shell of decay.

It surrounded her, too.

But now that she had cried herself out, wept until she slept, and woke up exhausted and a little less clouded by her despair, she could pick it up and examine it like a bicuspid with a distinct line of decay about the gum line. She could floss out the worst of her misconceptions and reason through them. She could scrape away the plaque of horrifying new memories layering themselves upon the old ones.

Oh, it would take time. And there would always be a mark – a spot of difference like the shine of a filling. But over time, she would heal. For her, it always started with a good cry.

And now she had a family to lean on in addition to her near-countless minis. It had been a couple centuries since she, Sandy and Bunny had lost their closeness – a definite cavity caused by the lack of regular care. But she saw, now. The Guardians were not just coworkers. They were few, and they needed to stand by each other even when they didn't need the support. That's what a family did. And after the botched attempts to entertain a single child in the middle of the Warren, it had become painfully clear that they needed a little help understanding family bonds and the very thing they were centered upon: the children.

Jack had helped them see how crooked they had become in the hum-drum of the job. He had shown them the real world in one child after they had numbed themselves with their assumptions of the human world. In her mind, Tooth saw Jack as the braces, straightening a smile whose imperfections affected the function of the rest of the body.

Little imperfections – Bunny's impatience, North's blunt line between Christmas and Easter, Sandy's wise but somewhat oblivious nature, and Tooth's own too-fast way to life – could be beautiful and unobtrusive. But not knowing what to do with a child's company, how to entertain a little girl without sending her screaming in mild terror, was like an overbite that prevented the proper ability to chew one's own food.

It had to be fixed, and Jack Frost had fixed it with a single snowflake. Forty-eight hours later they were busy impaling him on a dead spirit's dagger. Here, Tooth felt exhausted and empty enough to pick up that proverbial bicuspid and stare long and hard at it.

The Guardians had done what was necessary to save Jack's life. Given the circumstances, there had been no alternative. They had prepared a room and supplies to make the purification as easy as possible, and they were still together now, willing to forego their duties to help the newest Guardian begin his recovery. Logic stated they had done well.

But boys and logic didn't always get along. So Toothiana came to a conclusion.

The boys would need a little extra help starting to cope with it all. She wouldn't expect them to kick off with a good cry, but she would certainly floss out the problem, make them look at their own proverbial bicuspids, and start down the road to familial unity. After all, Jack would need them to be able to look him in the eye without flinching if they were to care for him during his recovery.

Pale light danced across the floor, playing in the vast space beneath her suspended bed. The moon was shining brightly upon her, and she couldn't help but give a tiny smile to the glowing orb, and the man who resided upon it. He was source of comfort in the dark of the night, and she took courage.

For a little while, she could put her own needs aside and be strong for her boys.

Every household needed a matron.

* * *

Santoff Claussen was quiet as the dead.

At least there was no one dead in Santoff Claussen.

North sighed at his morbidity. He should have been happy. They had come out the victors of another battle – two in as many days. Any soldier or warrior would be jealous of such a record! But the delivery of that success – his hand in that act – tarnished it beyond recognition in his mind.

For lack of a better joke, it was a shadowed victory.

"Bah!" he spat at nothing. Shadowing. It had ruined a part of him deeply. And here he stood, in the middle of the globe room, hoping Manny would say something, _anything_, to soothe his tattered soul, to let him know he had done right.

Never in all his years had he felt so riven apart by his actions. Never as a bandit had he questioned what he stole or from whom. Never as a soldier had he questioned the strike of his blades. He was a soldier, he was a Cossack, and he was Russian! He meant everything he did. But never had he stolen from a child. Never had he laid an ill-fated hand upon them. And never had he meant them harm. _Ever_.

This day changed everything. This day, he had stolen the desperate trust of a young man and turned it against him. He had not only set a hand upon him, he had set a blade _in_ him – _through him! Through_ a spirit of eternal youth, one who was always growing in his wisdom. But in a sense still a _child_, like they all were.

And he had meant it all.

For the good of Jack Frost, he had come so near to slaying the boy. Images of a burying blade, and seeping blood, and tar-oil darkness all flashed through North's mind, fresh as the smell of reindeer dung before it hits the ground.

He rubbed his eyes and looked up at Manny. Manny looked back, but offered little more than his moonbeams, and even those felt tinged with grief. Grief borne of understanding. Manny could watch over them, and guide them, but there were times he could not stretch his powerful influence over the burdens cast on the Guardians. That was most times, in fact, and for good reasons – reasons that often made them stronger people, and better Guardians. Rare was the day when he showed his remorse for letting reality take its own course.

This day was truly a rare one.

A tiny hand alighted on his shoulder, startling him out of his recessing thoughts. He knew that touch, and for a moment North was half-ready to wave her off and half-ready to admit defeat without even looking. The rush of exhausted shock was gone the next instant, and the Wonder Guardian knew he wouldn't have the gumption to look her in the eyes.

"I brought you cocoa," Toothiana ventured to say. "An elf made it for me, so it's not sugar free, I promise."

That almost pulled a grin from the whiskery cover of his beard. Almost. He took the mug anyway, held it between fingers that were cold for every good reason except the permanent chill of the ice cap. He would rather have had eggnog with a little extra 'kick' in it, but he knew better than to go down that road. It didn't lessen the temptation.

He took a sip to please her, and blinked. There _was_ a special kick to it…

"Peppermint?"

"I thought it might help soothe your nerves," she replied, managing a soft smile. And to his great surprise, it did help just a tiny bit.

"Thank you," was all he could think to say. There was a moment of silence that North wished he could have called peaceful, or companionable. It was not. He was too tied up in his own mind to be good company.

"You know," Tooth began, settling carefully upon his broad shoulder, "I'm sure Jack will understand why you did what you did."

North took a calming breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the image – so vivid – of the young Jack Frost nodding at him while the dagger hovered in the air between them.

"Drink your cocoa." Tooth's gentle hand was on the bottom of the mug, tipping it to his lips. It broke him from his black-hole thoughts enough for him to do what she asked. The peppermint left a fresh trail down his throat along with the warmth, and he had to admit he didn't mind being mothered in that moment.

"I can't just accept what I did, Toothy," he blurted after he swallowed. He heard her sigh, felt her sag against the line of his shoulder and it almost made her feel a little heavier.

"I'm not asking you to accept it yet, Nick, but you've been around long enough to know that brooding over it won't be beneficial for anyone. Especially when Jack needs you now."

It was North's turn to let his shoulders sag.

"This is just a guess," she continued, "but I feel like you'd have a little easier time with this if it had been any other Guardian but Jack. Is that right?"

He had to think about that one, so he tipped back his mug for a long draw to lengthen the silence. He wouldn't want to do this to _anyone_ in his "family", but if he had to choose someone, Jack would be on the bottom of that list. The very bottom.

"Is true," he agreed, and part of him hated to admit it.

"Is it because he's new to our clutch, or because he seems so young?"

"His youth." North could answer that one without hesitation. "My center feels betrayed by my actions today."

"… I see."

There was a long moment of silence in which North's mind was assaulted by Jack's skinny frame, spread out and pinned to the table beneath like a butterfly in a box. Despite himself, though, North felt his insides warm, and his muscles begin to lose tension. What was that all about?

"You do realize that you helped save _his_ center, though, don't you?"

He hadn't thought about it that way. Sure, he'd had a hand in saving Jack's life, but the center was very different. Perhaps Tooth was right. Maybe by tarnishing his own center, he had saved another Guardian's calling – a _new_ Guardian, at that. North thought he might be able to get a grip on it if he kept that mantra.

He felt the world tilt just a little, and Tooth was hovering on her majestic wings again, prodding him away from the Globe Room.

"Come on," she said. "It's way past time for resting now." He shuffled down the hall, feeling flushed and unfamiliar with himself. It was a shameful feeling, considering his natural disposition. He ran Santoff Claussen like a well-oiled machine. He was king of the wondrous side of Christmas. He could deliver gifts to every household in one turning of the night around the globe.

But one lonely spirit could unravel him without lifting a finger.

Tooth stopped him at his bedroom door. "Finish that," she said, pointing to the mug. He did, for there was hardly a swig left. It was cool and chalky on his tongue, but no less sweet. Tooth's hands miraculously appeared and took the crockery from his grasp, just as the world tilted with a little more vigor than necessary. He tipped, leaning heavily against his bedroom door.

"Well," she sighed. "I suppose I'm not gonna be able to get you to brush your teeth before you pass out?" Her choice of words made something click in North's brain, even though he was busy fighting his eyelids.

"Toothy, what did you do?" he slurred dreamily. It took longer than he wanted to get an answer, for the fairy was opening his door and shouldering some of his weight, guiding him to flop unceremoniously upon his bed.

"I drugged you," she said with gentle affection, and patted his arm. "Just a little bit. It's an herbal relaxant to take the edge off. Your body's exhaustion is doing the rest. I'm sorry, honey…"

"I should be cross with you," he complained with not a hint of actual anger. The bed felt so nice on his tired back, after all, and how could he be mad at Tooth for wanting him to feel better?

"I know," she cajoled. She nipped a fur blanket from the hope chest at the foot of the bed and draped it over him. He knew he was half-hanging over the edge, but couldn't bring himself to really care just then. "You can be upset tomorrow. I just couldn't watch you work yourself into that mental trench anymore, North, it was hurting you. I hope you can forgive me."

His mind was already shutting down, or he was certain he could have found something witty and just a little bit sharp to say. As it was, thought was becoming a blessedly distant thing. He had the distinct feeling that rest was just what he needed to face the coming day. What a concept…

"Can't stay mad at you, Toothy," he mumbled, feeling as though half of it was in Russian, and the other half was a sad excuse for English. She would understand him anyway. He felt like maybe he was supposed to be realizing something, but his brain was oozing into the pillow under his ear.

"_You are too sweet_," he managed, and knew it was all Ruski. He felt her rubbing a comforting hand on his bicep as he settled under the blanket and let his eyes close. Random drugging aside, he felt warm in knowing there was a chance.

Perhaps they really could be one big happy family, after all.

* * *

Santoff Claussen was starting to wake up; Sanderson could hear the sounds of life on the other side of his bedroom door. The yetis were early risers with heavy feet. Part of him was irritated at the disturbance of the peaceful atmosphere, though the air was still heavy with worry. The rest of him was glad of the noise. He could focus on it, keep his eyes open and make himself stay awake.

He was still being a hypocrite.

How could the master of dreams, the patron of sleep, _not_ want to sleep?

It was kind of a stupid question in his mind, but he was too tired to filter out such silly thoughts. Besides, the answer was easy: nightmares. Bad dreams borne of experience, and not having anything to do with the unscrupulous ways of a trickster. Bad dreams that fueled a sense of fear in the deepest corners of his heart and set his chest cramping again. This was the aftermath of a shocking event.

But whether it came from the Nightmare King's spindly fingers or not, it didn't make a difference. There was a chance the blaggard could still feel the fear, take strength from it in the pits of his dilapidated lair, and the emotions of a Guardian were so very powerful. Sanderson would not give Pitch the satisfaction of feeding off his righteous fear, no matter how small the chances.

And every time he closed his eyes, blood and darkness flashed before his vision. It wasn't just blood – it was blood _spray_, accompanied by the boiling, maddened coils of evil rising like the black smoke of an explosion. Blood and evil and cries all rising up from gray pelt and pale skin alike.

Sanderson gasped and pried his eyes open, unaware of when he had let them fall closed. His sand whirled about in agitated curls, and he took deep breaths to calm himself. He had been up most of the night, and he knew he needed to sleep if he was to be of any use at all to the others – especially for Jack.

Sanderson thumped his head against the wall with a rush of air that would have been a groan, had he the voice to satisfy that longing. He was glad – overjoyed – that Jack had weathered the purification. He was optimistic that he had done things right, however horrifying it was. He felt his soul's want to rest because he could feel that Jack was resting.

But Sanderson was scarred. The mental marks from this endeavor were deeper, he thought, even than the true nightmare of purifying Aster. He had a feeling he knew why.

_Aster_ had been a warrior from the start. He had lost much, and expected little in return for his duties as a Guardian. He was lone Pooka who had lost a lover and the chance for kits. He was a survivor, a warrior in the deepest sense of the word, long before his force met its match in Pitch all those years ago.

_Jack Frost_, though centuries-old and technically a man, was still in part a boy. He was a child, if even in the smallest sense – and probably destined to be one of the greatest Guardians because of that. For the Guardians' center, no matter how diverse its purpose between them, revolved around one thing: children. No matter how much he reasoned to himself with the truth, the indelible horror remained:

Sanderson Mansnoozie had intentionally injured – practically _tortured_ – a child.

The stomach turning memory of digging his fingers into –

There was a knock, and he gasped. His eyes had fallen shut again. The door creaked open just enough to let a feather-dressed head pop through.

"Sandy?" Tooth called softly.

He straightened up in his corner full of sand and waved her in with a "come hither" gesture. She closed the door behind her, hovering for a moment and squeezing her shoulders uncertainly.

"I was worried about you," she said at length. He didn't have the heart to smile at her – it would be a lie. He averted his gaze instead, trying to decide if he had the strength to be in the company of anyone. He was certain he was only accentuating her worry, and he felt bad.

"Look," she sighed, and knelt next to him. "I know this was particularly horrifying, so I'm not going to beat around the bush trying to make you feel better."

Sanderson felt a little twinge of disappointment despite himself. He hadn't been expecting comfort, but he wanted it all the same.

"But I will tell you the truth." She placed a comforting hand on his, tilting her head into his view to make him look her in the eye. "What we did was brutal, and it was necessary. We didn't have the time to find another way to purify Jack. We did all that we could as quickly as we could. And we saved his life."

Her hand was on his chin, cool fingers tilting his face to look up instead of trying to look away. Her jewel-violet eyes met his with a soft sincerity that had him pinned in place –

- the dagger of Old Man Winter sunk into the wood beneath pale, heaving flesh, guided there by his golden hand. It _pinned _the boy –

"_Sanderson_. Jack lives because of your guidance." She gave his head the gentlest shake, _made_ him look at her. "You did not betray your vow as a Guardian. You saved our child comrade. You did everything in your power to protect his existence, just like you did with Bunny. If anything, you kept your vow no matter how gruesome it got, and we did it _better_ this time. You held us together when we were ready to fall apart, and Jack still needed our help.

"As far as I'm concerned, you are the greatest Guardian of us all."

All he could do was stare at her. He didn't know whether to laugh, or argue with her, or weep. So an over-exhausted giggle turned into a flurry of meaningless sand images, and the images melted from the air as his giggling breath died and he was left with no more strength to hold his head up. He held his face in his hands to hide, and he heaved a deep, mournful, silent sob.

Only the rush of his breath could be heard. Only the tiniest tinkling of sand as it swirled about in his grief. Only the shuffling of feathers as Tooth wrapped her arms around him. The shift of her cool fingers on his sand-covered wrists while she pulled his hands from his face and let the soft plumage of her shoulder soak up his tears.

"Cry, dream maker," she whispered, and the waver of her voice made him realize she was weeping too. "Cry until you sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

And he thought maybe, if Tooth was to be the "mother" of this new family, they had a real chance. So he wept centuries' worth of tears, until the exhaustion pushed all the memories away, and he drifted on his own cloud in the arms of a true matron.

* * *

Where the yetis got the suture kits, Bunny had no idea, but he wouldn't question the convenience. He sighed and wiped again at the blood seeping from Jack's torn side. His work was tiring and gruesome, but he had several reasons to be optimistic.

Jack had breezed through the first twenty-four hours completely unconscious and unaware. He was resting, and he was hoping. That alone gave Bunny the boost he needed to continue.

The curved suture needle trembled minutely in his tired paw. How long had he been at this? He'd lost track of the time, but a glance at the wall clock didn't help him. Didn't matter anyway; he hadn't finished his task yet. Bunny straightened his back with a longsuffering sigh, stretching it lightly to get the kinks out, to iron out the soreness of falling asleep at the bedside. Then he bent over and went back to work.

He had hoped Jack's expulsion of darkness would play out a little differently than it had for himself, but he had perhaps been too hopeful. The winter spirit had practically been rent asunder by the fleeing energies. His whole left side was a torn, jagged mess, which was where the tireless sewing came in.

Sandy had come into the room (at Tooth's gentle prodding, it looked like) and stayed only long enough to check over their ward and ensure there was not a remaining hint of shadows. He had then retreated, and the fairy had stayed behind to assist. That had been hours ago. It had thus been hours since Bunny was given the all clear to begin stitching the boy shut.

Wounds as deep as his required multiple layers of sutures – three, to be exact. Bunny pushed another twinge of jealousy away, having been purified and torn apart in a time when stitches were not nearly as neat and tidy as they were now. For a short while, the Pooka had been held together by a horse's hair. These newfangled internal stitches were made of summat that dissolved over time. The only concern was whether or not they would dissolve quickly enough to be suitable for an immortal's faster healing process. Not that they had much of a choice in the matter. It was this stuff or plush toy thread, and Bunnymund was not that cruel.

Each stitch was placed ever-so-carefully, but when Bunny had to redo his third stitch in a row, he knew he had to stop. He couldn't look at Jack's mangled flesh anymore, and he was too tired to continue putting it back together properly.

"Tooth," he sighed in defeat, "I can't do anymore." She was hovering at his side in a heartbeat.

"Don't fret," she said, leaning over to take the needle and thread from his paws carefully, "I'll finish up. I need to switch to that stuff for the top layer, right?" She pointed at the other suture kit, containing material that did not dissolve on its own.

"Yeah. Ta…" He got up from the stool, casting an apologetic glance at the fairy. She got the message and touched his shoulder, giving it a reaffirming squeeze.

"You've been at it for four hours. Give yourself a little credit."

There was a soft chirp of agreement on his other shoulder, and Bunny nearly jumped at the sound. He'd forgotten that Mehndi – one of Tooth's minis – had taken her place in his company and hadn't left him since he woke up at Frost's bedside. Apparently she favored him enough to constantly be on his person, despite the obsession she shared with all her sisters over the winter child. He had to admit, the attention was different than what he received from his egglets, but not unwelcome.

"I don't know how you do it, anyway," Tooth continued after a moment of silence.

"Hm?" he managed. Mehndi had perched herself on his head, scratching her tiny fingers through his ridge, likely trying to comfort him. It was working.

"Your hands – er, paws. Being dexterous enough to do something like this must take a lot of work." Tooth's voice was already becoming distant with concentration as she picked up where Bunny left off, long and delicate fingers wielding the needle much faster than he had. Nevertheless, he felt himself smile a tiny bit at her observation.

"It does," he agreed. "I think I would've been done with him a while ago if I had real fingers." And it was true; there had been times early in his Guardianship when he had found himself wishing for longer, more human digits to help him with his tasks. The human world was built for human hands, not Pooka paws. But he had learned and adapted, just like all of humanity does when faced with a challenge.

After his purification, too, he'd had to adapt – to learn to move again. Had to regain his flexibility and natural movement. Had to come to terms with the memories and ill intentions the shadows had tried to latch onto within his own heart. Had to accept the loss of some of his Pooka-borne abilities and power. But the hardest thing to get used to was the guilt and remorse in the eyes of his fellow Guardians. It was knowing that his weakness had killed a spirit nearly as ancient as the battle between dark and light.

He could only hope that Jack would not have to adapt nearly as much.

As it was, the list would be long, and the he worried for the winter child's wellbeing. How would an immortal whose center, dependent on joy and comfort and all things fleetingly wonderful, survive all this without losing something of himself? Hope, at least, endured in the face of the worst circumstances, could flourish even in the darkest days. The Guardians didn't know Jack Frost well enough to be confident in his ability to endure.

He would pull through this physically. But how would his center survive?

"You're worried," Tooth stated, jostling him from his thoughts.

"Be a fool if I wasn't…" he murmured.

Tooth wore a sad smile as she worked, pulling the suture thread carefully, fingers deftly tying a knot. "Do you remember what you said to me all those years ago? When you caught me fussing over you?"

"Yes," and he rather disliked the memory. "Tooth…"

"Say it."

He hesitated. Mehndi patted his cheek, twittering a questioning trill. Though she wasn't looking, he shook his head at the Guardian of Memories, unprepared to go down the road she was prodding for.

"What did you say to me, Aster?"

That tone made him feel like a kit in trouble with the clan matron. It was enough to spur into doing what she asked.

"I said you were a bloody fool to worry over me," he replied, however reluctant. He remembered it so clearly – he had been half-degenerated by that point. He had been pained, and weak, and frustrated… "I'm not proud of it, y'know."

"I know. I was just thinking about how natural it is to worry, and how foolish it must be." Tooth closed off another suture. He envied her speed.

"I don't follow," he admitted. He had learned over time that worry was a natural thing. It was a sign someone cared for another. Worrying just enough could help a loved one.

"I worried after you, but my worrying isn't what helped you heal – it was my hands. We worried after the children, after the _whole world_ the other day; but it wasn't our worries that gave those kids the courage to stand up to Pitch." She stopped her mending to look over the boy: a mess of mangled flesh, thready breathing, and deep bruises in the swirling patterns of intrusion left by darkness that was no more. "As much as I want to worry over Jack, I have to wonder how much good it would do for either of us. It's not my worrying that will help him. It's my care, just like it was with you."

Tooth glanced at Bunny, and that sad smile was still there. It broke him a little bit, and he shifted carefully where he stood. He could do nothing to ease the twinge that smile caused behind his sternum. What could he say in the face of such thoughts? What could he say _at all_ on the subject? Somehow, he was certain he'd just proven himself a hypocrite.

"I'm certain we don't have to worry about Jack," she continued, "but we do it anyway. Our actions will be what help him recover, not our fretting. We can't help but worry, Bunny, but please try not to compare his experience with your past. It's not fair to either of you."

Bunny realized she was right. His experience, while being one of the only sources the Guardians could draw upon to know what to expect, was not something that could be compared to what happened the previous day. As similar as they were, these two warriors had fought two different battles. He could understand what she was saying, grasp what she was trying to give him.

Respite.

And all at once, as Mehndi settled on his shoulder and fluffed her tail feathers, Bunny realized what Toothiana was doing. Why she was so put together in the quiet aftermath of their hellish endeavors. She was being strong for her boys.

He nodded dumbly at her, and her smile lightened, if only a little.

"You need a break," she said. "I've got this covered. Why don't you get something to eat?"

Another stupid nod was all he could muster. As he turned and limped out the door, though, he realized he _had_ to say something. He had to offer her something – comfort, companionship, a shoulder to cry on, he didn't know – and this comradeship between them all was so new again, he didn't know what to do with it.

"Hey, Tooth," Bunny said over his shoulder. She looked up. "When you're ready to… not be strong, anymore, you come find me."

And he left before a reply could be given. He hobbled down the corridor with every intention of going to the kitchen, and he had no intention to stick around Jack's room and start dredging up more memories. As it was, he was having a hard time keeping them at bay.

But then Tooth's voice suddenly rang clear down the hallway:

"And don't forget to brush your teeth after!"

He gaped into the middle distance for a moment. A giggle escaped him. Then he chortled. And then he laughed. In the shock of the rightness and the normalcy and the _comfort_ of Toothiana's demands, Bunny could do nothing but guffaw like a mad buck. And when his laughter died down moments later, amongst his catching gasps and Mehndi's curious chirps, he thought they had a damn good chance.

A chance to remain strong in the midst of the aftermath. A chance to keep things lighthearted for Jack's sake. A chance to help each other limp along until they could look the frost spirit in the eyes again, and heal each other's invisible scars until only the faint marks remained.

It was a chance for Bunnymund to heal his past and his present.

And he thought maybe – just maybe – they could learn to be the family they were all hoping for, thanks to their matron.

* * *

**Ok. First, I deeply apologize for the later than usual update. Second, I promise there is a more Jack-focused bent coming up very very soon. I just couldn't get my brain to agree that he would wake up within 24 hours of what he had endured. Thirdly, you are all amazing and I thank you for sticking with me so far. Recovery angst is on its way in the next update! But I had to clear some proverbial mud from the path before we got there – I couldn't have the Guardian's so messed up they wouldn't be able to interact with Jack once he wakes up. Some mending had to start to keep things real.**

**It strikes me (from personal experience, mostly) that when there is a crisis that causes a lot of emotional turmoil, there seems to be one person who takes up the mantle of caring for everyone else's emotional needs in the aftershock. It's a role some people fit into naturally, and I felt that it was Tooth's moment to shine, as her personality seemed to fit the bill best. **

**An enormous and heartfelt thank you to my reviewers: Galimatias, AmaraRae, PrincessRakka, savedbygrace94, Bard of Chaos, DragonflyonBreak, Catflower Queen, IstariannaCrudgo, bit-of-a-dork, Alaia Skyhawk, KatFromHell, ThatOneFan, EpicDetour9, Magiccatprincess, the-ice-cold-alchemist, Vampires United, Dragowolf, Smoochynose, Annie, kyuubecky, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, Kitsune Foxfire, Cayran, Fairest Of Folk, RainyDayinAstrasia, FrostFan1, Chuni Luni, XCountrySkiier03, and a couple Guests! Thank you to everyone who favorited, followed, and have taken the time to read **_**Shadowed Victory**_**. Ya'll are amazing, and you make me feel amazing.**

**Next update should be close to on-time! See you in three!**

**~mj**


	10. Always There

There were no dreams. There were no memories, either. It was strange. It was peaceful, though. Somewhere in the unnatural silence, he figured he was sleeping. He remembered telling… _someone_, that he hadn't slept since 1985. He wasn't sure how long ago that was – he could have been anytime, for all he cared.

He just felt strange.

He had been hoping for something, not long ago. He couldn't remember what it was. Couldn't remember much of anything, actually. He just sort of… floated for a while. He still hoped, because it felt good to hope. Everything else was distant and out of reach except for the tiny, niggling heaviness in his chest that told him something was wrong, but the feeling wasn't strong enough to disturb him.

So he floated and hoped. He lost track of time, had no idea how long he was there. Then, at some point, he thought he ought to do something. He started with trying to remember. He tried to remember what he was hoping for. He tried to remember who he had been talking to about '85. It felt like all his thinking was taking a long time, but eventually he could feel the answers just outside his reach. The closer he came to remembering, though, the heavier his chest felt.

All of a sudden, he thought he must have been floating too long. He was restless, feeling caged in the vast nothingness. He wanted to see children. He couldn't remember why he felt strange and heavy, but he knew he would find out when he left this floating haven without dreams. When the heaviness spread into his side and tightened into discomfort, he thought he wouldn't like leaving here.

He wanted to leave anyway.

Once he started forcing himself awake, there was no stopping it. Memories, sensations, recollections, and images came first in a trickle. Then a flow. Then a torrent.

Elli had once told him he had a strange way of waking. Jack thought maybe now he understood. A normal person woke up with most of their brain still asleep; it took a little time for them to become aware.

He was not so lucky.

Apparently, he didn't get a break like normal people did, as _normal_ people woke up and felt stupid for a minute or two before they were aware of pain. But nooo! Jack Frost just couldn't bring himself to be _normal_, could he? He always had to wake up all at once instead of little by little, even as a child who knew nothing of danger. Oh, it came in handy over 300 years of being invisible to all but wild animals and temperamental seasonal spirits, but he regretted the tendency now.

Pain washed over Jack's body like a crashing wave that drags into the undertow. Rising up to the surface of consciousness made him no less surrounded by it, and his waking gasp of air was probably the most excruciating thing he'd felt in a long time. Then the flash of a dagger danced across his mind, and he thought maybe he'd reconsider that when he wasn't busy trying not to scream.

The sound that did escape him had barely enough strength to reach his pounding ears, but he was pretty sure it was something like a moan. It caught in his dry throat, and the coughing fit that followed didn't even let him take a decent breath to fuel it. Fresh agony spiked through his gut with every pull of his muscles, lancing through his chest, even shooting down his arm.

There was pressure on his skin. He was too focused on trying to breathe, and it took him a long time to realize the pressure was actually someone touching him. He focused on those hands, trying to take his attention away from the pain. It helped that any touch was overwarm to his enchanted skin – made it easy to distinguish it from the roiling curtain of discomfort.

Small, gentle fingers combed through his hair, sparking little shivers that eased him and reminded him of Ma more than Samuel. A larger hand pressed down on his abdomen. It made him cough harder and sent fireworks of agony flying behind his eyelids. He managed a half-groan with the next cough. He felt too heavy to knock the weight away, but since the weight made coughing felt like less of a struggle and more of task, he wondered if maybe he should just let himself be handled by the burning touch for a time.

It wasn't really a choice, anyway.

Time passed in a small eternity, but then he was certain his sense of time was just as screwed up as the rest of him. He coughed until his tired muscles couldn't do it anymore, and as he tapered into shallow gasping, the heavy hand lifted, and the voices in the room finally became apparent to him. They weren't shouting, thank heaven, but they were certainly loud enough to penetrate the blood rushing in his ears and the lightheaded fog clouding his mind.

"-you hear me, Jack? I don't know… Do you think he's awake, or was it just instinct?" Gentle, feminine, partnered by a chorus of concerned chirps. That was Tooth. He pried his eyes open, astonished at how heavy his eyelids felt. Everything was blurry and a little bit swimmy and much too bright, but the wax waves were absent and he was grateful.

"Ah, there's your answer, Sheila." Firm, accented and lilting. Bunny. Green eyes and a gentle paw on his shoulder grounded him. "Welcome back, Frost."

He blinked and focused on catching his breath before trying to talk. It took a while, and although he appreciated Tooth's fingers in his hair and Bunny's bracing paw on his shoulder, it was strange, too. Strange that it seemed so natural for them to be touching him, and strange for him to want that contact so badly after decades of trying to convince himself he didn't need it.

Finally, long after the window of conversation seemed passed, out came the dumbest set of words he'd ever put together between breaths.

"Did I go somewhere?"

He wasn't sure if the rush of air he heard from Bunny was a sign of humor or annoyance. Either way, it lightened the serious feel of the room a little, and that did a lot to strengthen the new Guardian through his pain.

"Nah, mate, you didn't go anywhere. You're tough as a cut snake, I'll give you that."

Jack didn't know what that even meant, but he knew the tones of a complement when he heard it – mostly because he rarely got that such things until his new friends had recruited his help. He liked the sound of it, and he was certain it was something he would happily get used to.

But his breath began to rattle in his chest again, and he could feel the pinch of the oncoming coughs. His friends must have seen it on his face, because they were both slipping their hands under his shoulders the next moment. He knew with a fresh wave of dread what they were going to do.

"No, wait –" he barely managed.

"Sorry, kiddo, but you need to sit up," Bunny replied, and his stern edge made Jack irritated. "On three. One…"

Jack did the only thing he could do, albeit half-instinctually. He tensed his shoulders, making himself as rigid as possible.

"Two…"

Which was about as solid as a wet noodle. Oh, this was gonna _suck._

"Three."

To their credit, Tooth and Bunny were very good at lifting in sync. To Jack's credit (or so he thought), he cut his keen down to a growl and managed a few reedy gasps before his breath hitched.

Bunny's free arm braced him across his upper chest, and it kept him upright when the coughing started anew. His brain did a funny thing while his vision whited out with the jarring motions – it recalled something of past experience, distracting him just enough to get through his body's personal brand of torture.

Jack remembered an occasion where his chest had felt heavy and his lungs half-filled, as they did now. He had tried hibernating in his seventh year of existence, to pass the summer boredom before he had discovered the vast stretch of the world. He had woken up barely able to breathe, and had spent several days coughing up the dregs of sleep and body fluids that had accumulated over the months. He had learned then that staying still for too long was not a good idea no matter how healthy a person's body was.

Apparently, his body decided to be doubly apoplectic over his extended nap now, which was entirely bogus. … Did he just think a big word? What did apoplectic even mean…?

The current fit, at least, didn't last as long as the first.

"That's it," Tooth's voice soothed through his pounding ears. "Get it out…" She rubbed the back of his neck and his shoulders, but when she dragged her hand up his spine, he squirmed against the unfamiliar sensation. It made him move, and that was just mean.

"Sorry Jack," she said, responding to his latest grunt of protest, "but you'll heal better if we keep your lungs in good shape."

He was exhausted and half-asleep by the time he was done (again, not long), relying entirely on Bunny's strong arm to keep him from folding in on himself. It struck him that having someone to lean on like that was just weird. Nice, but… weird.

In the end, he hadn't coughed anything up, but at least his chest wasn't pinching in that "you will only breathe in coughs!" way.

"That'll do ya for now, eh?" Bunny drawled. Jack really hoped the casual sound in the rabbit's voice was a farce – no one should sound that laid back when someone else has just finished hacking up half a lung.

They laid him back slowly, carefully, but the shifting of bandages and bed sheets was nearly intolerable. Jack was pretty sure he made some sort of noise, and couldn't bring himself to care whether it sounded like a whine or not. His usual bursting vocals clearly were not going to work for the near future. He felt pillows meet his shoulder blades and neck, and he realized he was only mostly lying down, propped into a gentle slope that helped his spine feel less over-rested. He let his head lean back into the kind of softness he hadn't felt in centuries, and it was odd, but he was grateful.

Then again, everything seemed weird right now, and he was grateful for most of it.

"Try to breathe deep, honey," Tooth encouraged. Yeah right…

But her fingers were in his hair again, and he liked that, so he deepened his wheezing _minutely_ to please her. She smiled at him, and he noticed that something was off, but neither his vision nor his mind would focus enough to let him figure out what it was. He did manage to gather enough air to ask a question he hadn't known he needed an answer to.

"Did it work?"

Oh yeah. He'd been in big trouble, and his new friends were helping him. Tooth's smile seemed to brighten a little, and she settled herself on the edge of the bed while she answered.

"Yes, Jack. You're free of shadows now."

The relief that tickled up under his sore ribs nearly had him laughing, so he toned it down to a gasping giggle. He was free! In that jittery moment he wanted to leap out the window and greet the wind, go to Burgess and see his kids, chase Bunny through his Warren, have Phil chase him through the workshop -

Paws glided deftly over his bare chest and bandaged belly, eliciting greater pain on his flank and pulling him from joy to annoyance in a heartbeat. What on earth had happened to him there? Jack remembered some things, but most of the details, while present, were too blurry to understand in the increasing need for sleep.

"What happened?"

There was a brief pause, and Bunny's hands froze for a moment before he resumed. He pulled on one soft layer of bandages to readjust it, and Jack felt like it was dragging his skin off with it. "The darkness jumped ship, mate. I've never seen it run like that, so good on you."

Jack didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything. He tried to grin, though, He felt gratified that he hadn't gone through all this for nothing.

"Tore you up something fierce, though," Bunny continued. "It's gonna take a while to get you back on your feet."

Oh great. Boredom. His best friend! Bunny must have caught a look, or a nonexistent sigh, or an eye roll or something, because he was all business all of a sudden, even if his tone was gentle.

"Now look here," and there was a paw pad nearly poking him between the eyes, "you _rest_ for now. No use worrying about how much trouble-causing you're missing out on."

Jack hated, on a deep and secret level, that Bunny was right. His eyes were already closing, and he had no will to stop it.

"We'll do more explaining when you're awake enough," said Tooth, and he was grateful for the change in tone, because she seemed to understand he had no energy for following up on the confrontation Bunny was handing out on a silver platter. "And we'll try not to let you feel too cooped up, ok?"

He managed a nod and felt his body go completely lax. He hadn't felt this kind of exhaustion since he was… Nope. His brain was shutting down. He'd have to think about that later.

"We have something that will help with the pain, Jack," Tooth was saying. "Do you want it?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her, sardonic, before his eyelids fell shut on their own. He heard her giggle though, and her fingers left his hair, for which he was entirely too sad. A moment later, her hands were gently cradling his jaw, her touch very warm, but not overly so.

"Here," she cued, "just a few drops under your tongue." He opened his mouth, and was surprised by the strong, cloying taste. Was that eucalyptus?

"It should help with the coughing," said Bunny. "It's my own recipe… Don't look at me like that! This stuff is top notch."

Jack wiped the wary look off his face with a tired grin, ecstatic that he hadn't even needed to open his eyes to ruffle Bunny's fur. The next rush of air from the rabbit was definitely a chuckle.

"Cheeky bugger… Right, get some rest, Frost. "

"I'll be back after a while, ok, Jack?" said Tooth. He mumbled an affirmative of some kind. "I've got a palace full of little ladies who could use some good news, I think." With a gentle touch on his shoulder, the sound of her beating wings left the room.

Wait… they weren't going to leave him alone, were they? Much as he thought all their support was a little weird, he wasn't ready to be alone in his vulnerable state. He struggled to open his eyes, tried to raise a trembling hand. There was a paw resting in his palm in an instant.

"Relax, kiddo, I'm right here," said Bunny. Much as Jack would have liked to be independent and snarky to the Pooka, he couldn't bring himself to be anything but thankful for the gentle touch, and the sternly reassuring words, and the company. So he finally let himself relax, and the drifting current of sleep was quickly upon him.

"We will always be here, Jack. Someone will always be here."

He could feel his smile even as he slipped into sleep, and he remember times when he would have taken anything, anyone, to be a family over the solitude. Over the course of a few short days, this family – the most magnificent second chance a person could ask for – had finally answered his wishes. These Guardians were _his. _

His second chance family.

* * *

The moon was peeking through his window. He would not look.

Moonbeams danced across his golden cushion in the corner. He would not acknowledge them.

MiM was concerned. He did not care.

Sanderson Mansnoozie was busy – very busy in his little corner of Santoff Claussen. And what was so busy about staring at the stone floor as if it had wronged him? Oh, so many things.

Like searching for the insipid deity that lurked far beneath.

No matter where a person was in the world, they could look down at their feet, concentrate beyond the floor, and know that the ungracious Boogeyman was there. He was always there, somewhere. There would never be a time that he was not there, for his dastardly thoughts and cowardly center helped keep the world in balance.

That didn't stop the Sandman from thinking over some alarmingly terrible things to do to said blaggard. Therefore, Sanderson stared at the floor, reaching beyond with both mind and center, to pin Pitch Black's location within his shadowy, shifting realm.

Because Sanderson Mansnoozie planned to do every one of the terrible things he was thinking of. It was not revenge, he told himself, if his goal was not to rid the world of the Boogeyman. It was not revenge if all he wanted was to ensure the safety of his fellow Guardians against the threat of poorly controlled evil. It was merely due penance if he walked away before he took the life of another immortal, even when that immortal had come so indirectly close to taking the lives of two different Guardians on two entirely separate occasions.

It was protection. It was discipline. It was ensuring a spirit like them (no matter how dark he was) could not open the ancient gates he could not control. It was right.

What he planned to do was _right_.

And he'd be damned if he did not find that son of a _bitch_ if it took him a hundred years of sitting in that very corner and staring at the world beneath the floor to find him. He was going to get while the getting was good, and he was not going to waste this opportunity to close Pitch off from the channel of age-old darkness forever. He did not care how exhausted he was, he did not care how weakened he was in that moment or how weak he would become, and he _especially_ did not care about the ethereal light frantically caressing the back of his neck, trying to gather him away from his intentions.

He did not give thought to the darkness creeping into his mind, because this was not revenge.

This was necessary roughness.

Sanderson shrugged the moonbeams off his shoulders and stared at the floor.

* * *

"I don't understand; why are marks still here?"

North was fussing. Tooth held in a sigh while she finished washing the rest of the blood from Jack's body. Finally, he was clean from head to toe, and he was exhausted – already asleep.

"They're not dark marks anymore, North," she said, washing her hands in a basin. "That's bruising; look closer."

North leaned forward, running his fingers over Jack's shoulder and bicep. The swirling filigrees were no longer black as tar, but they were a deep, arterial purple. Given a little time, it would look like he had a run-in with a bad batch of yellow egg dye, and eventually it would be as if the marks hadn't been there at all. The exit wound, on the other hand, would certainly leave a permanent reminder of his troubles. The scar that would result would always be there - the blemish of a mystic wound on a mystic body.

"The shadows really tore him up," Tooth sighed and glanced at her work while she dried her hands, succeeding in somehow reading North's mind. "The dagger wounds were bad enough…"

Saying more on the subject was unnecessary. She was right; the shadows' escape had caused the winter sprite's flesh to tear a path between the dagger wounds. It had left the new exit path mangled and badly swollen from the bursting effects, and there was no way to know just how well Jack would heal from the trauma.

"Is blessing Jack is immortal." North stated. He placed a huge, comforting hand on her shoulder. "He will heal as we do."

"Not exactly…" Tooth replied, and she felt a sting of guilt for having to pop North's only bubble of comfort. "The shadowing and purification have taken away a lot of his strength. This won't be a magical ten-day recovery, North."

"That's… unfortunate," he managed, eyes a little wide. "But he will be all right?"

"Physically, yes, but he'll be weak for a while. He needs to recover his center strength before his body will be able to accelerate his healing to normal levels. At least, that's what happened with Bunny…"

"So, we must treat Jack as human," he said, nodding as if to confirm his own statement. North caught on quick, and Tooth appreciated that. However, treating Jack like a fragile mortal child would likely drive him up the wall.

"For now… Help me get a fresh bandage on him," she requested. "After this, I need a bath…"

"You took two already," North teased, though the humor was strained. He carefully lifted the boy into a mostly upright position.

"Have you ever tried getting blood and sand out of feathers? It's worse than convincing kids to floss once a day. Just once!" She held up an accusatory finger to the sky to prove her point, and then grabbed a roll of gauze a little too vigorously.

"Ok, I get it, I get it," he conceded with a small smile. Nevertheless, the mood was already turning somber again. They worked quietly, and Tooth tried to focus on just getting the wrap done right. This was not her expertise – Bunny had the most experience with field dressings and quick fixes because of his rough-and-tumble nature – and eons more life experience gave him quite a range. But after several hours of watching over the sleeping child (not counting the night he had spent at Jack's bedside), the Pooka was in dire need of a rest himself.

Halfway through her second attempt at bandaging, North brought her out of her wandering thoughts with a question.

"Do you think Sandy's all right?" They hadn't seen him since she had prodded him out of his room to check on Jack. That had been over twelve hours ago.

"I'm sure he's just fine," Tooth replied. She tried to sound confident, she really did. She finished off the bandaging, muttered an "all done," and North resettled their youngest on his side upon the mattress. Nary a stir came from the boy, but they weren't expecting it either. Merely being awake long enough to greet North and argue about the pride-ruining reality that was sponge bathing had him nodding off mid-sentence.

"He didn't look so tired when he came back from the dead," North finally commented, still contemplating Sandy's wellbeing. "How can this be?"

Tooth and North sat at the windowsill to watch Jack for a while. She put some thought into her answer before she dared open her mouth, and it delved into some of the darkest memories she possessed. Horrible images of Bunny writhing on an old stone slab. The borderline hopeless rage on Sandy's face when he couldn't properly treat the Pooka. The anguished smile on Old Man Winter's face when she told him Bunny was alive. The way the ancient one slipped through her fingers as ash the next moment… She took a deep breath and steered the conversation in an all-encompassing direction.

"Pitch is the embodiment of fear. The difference between fear and the pure evil of the darkness he tried to wield is enough to suck the energy right out of our center. I'm not certain, but I think when Sandy appeared to die, his center was just kept in captivity, quiet enough that even Pitch didn't realize it. It took just a handful of children to bring him back, so he must have been close to the surface the whole while, biding his time and energy until the right moment, or maybe asleep until the kids woke him."

"Pitch's fear only tied us down," North said, following her thread perfectly. "It was the disappearing belief that nearly got us."

"I think you're right. But evil will kill us. I hate to say it, but I think we were in greater danger of losing all three of the boys during Jack's purification just because of the nature of that evil. Sandy expended so much of his energy protecting and purifying… I wonder if he spent almost as much energy saving Jack as the energy Jack lost by fighting his own condition, you know?"

North crossed his arms and leaned back, a great breath whistling through his nose as he soaked in the information. "How do we know all this from just two shadowing events?"

Tooth had to chuckle a little at that. "There have been more among the spirits, apparently. These two are the only ones we Guardians have been directly involved in. We got all our prior wisdom from Old Man Winter."

North sat and stared at the sleeping winter child, nodding. He was still, and he was quiet. Tooth wanted to ask what he was thinking. She wanted to tell him that Sandy would brood for a while and eventually return to his old self. But she didn't know if that was true. Part of her was afraid to think about what might be going through Sandy's mind now, after witnessing another shadowing when he had sworn it would never happen again under his watch.

There was little more that could be said on the subject anyway, and Tooth could tell by the large saint's quietude that he probably wasn't ready to take in any more information for a while. She didn't blame him; there would be much more to get used to in the near future The silence stretched on for a while. The entire fortress was quiet. It was so different from the everyday ruckus, different even from the happy goings on that the Guardians shared upon their return to the pole. This silence was somber, but uplifted. A little buzzy, but patient. Celebratory but nurturing.

It was a rare type of silence for Santoff Claussen, and for now, that was ok by the Guardians.

* * *

Bunny stared at Sandy's bedroom door as if it were offending him somehow. And it was. It was in the way. Had been in the way for the last half hour. He tried knocking again, rapping his knuckles softly on the thick wood.

"Sandy? Just checking' in, mate. You ok?"

There was no answer. Not a single grain of sand slipped through the door to greet him, and it disturbed the Pooka. He knew the dream maker was in that room, he could smell the warm spice and slight dust of the man. He could hear the shifting hiss of sand and breath. Sandy was not sleeping, nor was he heeding the calls of a friend.

Bunny scratched at his bandaged arms absently, only stopping when Mehndi pushed at his knuckles. She fussed over him while he stared at that door, sensing his rising anxiety and trying to soothe it away. He tilted his ear for her when she started scratching behind it, acknowledging her efforts in the subtle shifts of cartilage and fur.

The door would not budge. The dream maker would not answer. So Bunny did the only thing he could think of - make sure he would be there when that door _did _open. He grabbed a couple fleecy blankets from the nest in his room, spread them before Sandy's suite, and settled there on the floor. Because he would always be there for the man who had saved his life, and he would return the favor in kind if given the chance.

As he curled up and pressed himself against the door, he hoped. As his little offsider settled into the ridge of fur on his crown, he hoped. As he drifted into a fitful nap, he hoped.

Bunnymund hoped this family was not losing their wisest member to the beckoning trenches of bitterness and revenge.

* * *

**Hi! Um… so, this is a little bit later than I wanted it to be. Nevertheless, you have all been so supportive in letting me know that as long as I update **_**eventually**_**, it's all good. ^_^ Thank you for that; really and truly. I imagine the pace of college life is going to slow things down a bit now that the spring semester is in session, but I can guarantee in full confidence that this story will continue to be updated until it is finished, no matter how screwy my self-imposed schedule.**

**So yay! Jack's awake. Um yeah. I gotta say, this is not my favorite chapter. Not my best work, but hey… it's good stuff anyway! (Well, would you look at that: confidence! Where'd that come from? Oh yeah, my reviewers!)**

**A huge thank you to my immensely supportive and ever-so-wonderful reviewers: Alaia Skyhawk, EpicDetour9, ThatOneFan, Catflower Queen, RedKetchup, Dragowolf, FrostFan1, Vampires United, Galem, juniper294, scrubslova, Scyler, naruXhinacrazy, tynder20, Eternal She-Wolf, hope-is-my-life, kyuubecky, TheLadyJazz, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, XCountrySkiier03, Annie, IstariannaCrudgo, Galimatias, RainyDayinAstrasia, Chuni Luni, and TaintedPerspective. I heart you guys! Thank you for your express patience and rock-solid support!**

**And, of course, thank you to **_**everyone**_**. Yes, you who have favorited, followed, and taken the time to read **_**Shadowed Victory**_** at all. I hope I've made your hunt for good fanfiction an enjoyable one.**

**Ya'll complete me.**

**~mj**


	11. Conscience and Conversation

He wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but Sanderson was instantly annoyed with himself when he woke.

He rubbed at burning eyes, shook his aching head, and massaged his sore neck. His chest ached terribly from spending too much time searching for Pitch's presence in the darkness. It was not good for him to be straining himself in such a way, he knew. But he could not stop – would not stop until the Boogey man's wrong was righted, and penance was paid.

That he couldn't find the man, though, spoke volumes. How weak was Pitch now? How much of his strength had been sapped just trying to maintain his twisted sands? How hard was the strike of a brave child's gentle tap to his minions? How horrifying was it to discover that in this era, the children _chose_ not to see him? What did it feel like to have your own army feasting on your fears?

Sanderson couldn't answer any of these questions – couldn't imagine how thorough a defeat it must have been, no matter how Pitch had deserved it.

But that would be his line of thinking before he had seen another shadowing. After that, dark thoughts crept into his mind, and hatred compounded the ache in his chest. This was not a good mindset for him to maintain, as it was against his very nature.

Sanderson couldn't bring himself to care in the moment. It was time to find his enemy.

A soft knock at the door shook his concentration.

"Sanderson," Aster mumbled through the door, all business. "I know you're awake in there, I can hear it." That tone was unmistakable; Aster was not going to leave until Sanderson let him in to see him. The stars only knew what those enormous ears and that twitching nose could detect. In all likelihood, Sanderson was as good as caught on his quiet quest of violence.

With a sigh, he willed a tendril of sand to unlock the door. The movements were sluggish and clumsy, but the audible click of the key was more than enough to humor Aster's bid for entrance. The oversized rabbit nudged the door open and slid silently in, but he paused in the doorway. Sure enough, those ears were tilting about, and that nose was working overtime. Aster's brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and agitation, but at least he closed the door behind him before he started his tirade.

"What the hell were you doing, Sandy?" he growled.

Sanderson, for his part, really did not feel like arguing at that moment, nor did he feel it necessary to explain himself. He glared instead, hoping he wouldn't have to put up a fight just because he wanted to do the right thing.

"Don't give me that sour face, mate, I can tell from over here that you haven't been resting. I can _smell_ the hate in here, and it's making me nervous. You wanna deal with a nervous rabbit?"

Sanderson dropped his gaze to Aster's paws, and his shoulders sloped with a heavy sense of shame. He hadn't intended to make others worry after him – hadn't intended for anyone to know a thing about what he was planning to do until after he was done. And, as determination lifted his shoulders up again, he decided that no one would know. He would not say a word, and his comrades could in no way prove to him that he should not do what he planned.

Aster must have recognized the hardened look on his face, because his ears fell back and he sighed, nearly cowing under Sanderson's unblinking challenge.

"Look, mate, the kids need you now more than ever. After everything we did, you can't just throw away our victory by losing focus for… something else." He was pleading with those sharp green eyes, and the crushing pause and hesitance in the last words threw Sanderson into defeated fretting.

If Aster already knew about the beckoning call of revenge under his hopes for discipline, what was the point? If Aster already knew, why was the dream maker even trying to conceal his plans? He shook his head at himself and glared at nothing.

_Why was he trying to conceal his plans at all?_ He was trying to do the right thing. He was not ashamed of his impending acts, and he knew better than to let the sweet taste of revenge consume him. He just didn't want the other Guardians involved when there were repairs to be done to the believing children and care to be administered for Jack.

He was not ashamed.

Was he?

"Sandy, look at me," Aster pressed. When he did, the Pooka had come nearly to his corner, and he was rubbing the scar on the back of his shoulder – kneading it as if he was truly, deeply bothered. He settled on his haunches, bracing his bad knee as he did so, and looked Sanderson straight in the eye.

"These past few days have been… hell. What with Pitch, and you lookin' gone, and Easter ruined, and even after everything we couldn't help Jack… I get that all this is gonna leave a scar. It's really easy to lose yourself in the pools of hatred that well up when someone wrong's you even after they're beaten. Trust me, I know."

Sanderson could not deny it; the Pooka had watched his people die. He had battled the craving for revenge for centuries up on centuries. The warrior knew loss better than any of them, in some ways, and no matter how much he hoped, he got the short end of the stick a lot. So much for lucky rabbit's feet…

This only served to strengthen Sanderson's resolve.

"As weak as Pitch is, we are too. We need to be together right now, in case anything else happens."

Aster was right about that, too. They had all silently agreed that they needed to be a family, both to be better Guardians and to better care for each other. In that light, Sanderson could see reason in postponing his endeavors for the sake of keeping priorities straight.

He was by no means abandoning thoughts of making Pitch pay for what he did, but he could see that the others needed him to be present in a familial capacity. They needed him to collect himself and be there for Jack, as well as for the rest of them.

And perhaps, just maybe, he needed their company as well. Reluctantly, the will to keep pushing himself began to slip away. So he softened his expression, pressed his lips into a thin line to convey that reluctance, and nodded. Aster finally let go of his scar, relief clear in the angle of his ears.

"Good. Are you ok?"

Sanderson gave Aster a gaze that was tight, neutral, and cool – the clear sign that his issues were not to be discussed at that time – and shook his head minutely in warning. Aster, thankfully, submitted, clearing his throat with a small cough and straightening his supple spine.

"Well, I got news that's sure to cheer you up, if you didn't know already." Aster's smile was warm, nearly infectious with how genuine it appeared. Sanderson humored him with a grainy question mark and a tilt of his head.

"Jack's been awake, on and off. I'm sure he'll want to see you."

Sanderson shared his surprise clearly on his face. Awake already? That was heartening news! He knew Jack was a strong boy, but to hear things like that made it much more tangible, easier to believe in hard times like these.

It led Sanderson to wonder how long he had been locked up in his room.

"Come on, then," Aster prodded, heading toward the door without waiting. "We'll get you settled by his bedside so he'll be sure to see you when he wakes."

Sanderson wanted to question the enthusiasm in Aster's actions – the straining reach for energy when the Pooka clearly had little to spare on words and gestures. The dream maker, though, could derive a conclusion: the warrior could probably smell Sanderson's intentions through the blasted door (and part of him was curious to know just what violent daydreams smelled like), and he was trying to get the man's mind onto a different track.

As he stood and stiffly followed his friend down the hall, he worried that perhaps Aster would raise a red flag to the others. Not that he was ashamed! He just didn't want to deal with the hassle of the others trying to stop him when he clearly knew what he was doing.

Aster, however, was not the kind of warrior to raise a flag prematurely. He was tightlipped to respect the privacy of others, and expected to be treated in kind. It was just what the 'tough as a cut snake' male did.

For now, Sanderson would trust that Aster would keep his lips closed about whatever he suspected of the dream maker. He would probably make a nuisance of himself if he thought it necessary, but it would be a bridge Sanderson would take care of when they came to it.

He stopped for a moment, leaning a hand against the wall when a dizzy spell hit him. He really was overexerting himself…

A paw on his shoulder, though gentle, startled him. He looked up, prepared to defend himself if Aster started spouting about what he detected. To his enormous credit, though, the Pooka was silent. He looked grim, but he was silent.

Sanderson took his moment to catch his breath and feel his feet, and then he moved on, letting the moment slip away without a word or gesture between them. Aster stayed silent, following behind his comrade now, and for that Sanderson was unexpectedly grateful. For him to be walking on his feet rather than floating through the air made progress insufferably slow, and he didn't need the speedy rabbit waiting ahead of him to remind him of his sometimes-infuriating stature.

They made it to Jack's room without further incident. The space was quiet. It smelled heavily of soap and wintergreen. The bed by the wall was piled with pillows on one end, and Jack's reclining figure rested against them.

Sanderson was drawn to the sleeping spirit like a bee to honey, both unwilling and unable to resist the need to see the boy he had so recently tortured in the effort to save. Aster was kind enough to pull a chair over, and Sanderson spent far too much energy defying gravity to seat himself in it. But he was now within easy reach of the winter spirit, and he shamelessly reached up and started combing white locks away from that resting face.

Resting. Jack was _resting_. He had nearly forgotten that in his frantic search for an enemy that hardly mattered in the face of… of this.

That, in that moment, was the most beautiful thing Sanderson had seen in decades. Not the recent defeat of Pitch, or the relief that they had successfully saved this boy – no, it was that look on Jack's face.

Tired, of course, but he looked content. A little pained, perhaps, but he was not crying out, or writhing, or spurting blood, or covered in darkness. More than anything, he looked peaceful. He looked safe.

Sanderson picked up Jack's left hand – the one closest to him, and examined his fingers. They were not dipped in gray. The swirling designs on his bare shoulder and chest no longer shifted and hissed in silent threats, but were the color of deep bruising. The bandages around his middle were stained with blood, but it looked old and dark – Jack's wound had not seeped all that much recently. He still had no fever, a touch to his forehead proved that easily enough. His breathing was labored and wet sounding, but it was steady even if it was a little shallow.

There was no frost on Jack's skin or the sheets below him, but Sanderson was sure that would change in time –

"Sandy," Aster's voice cut in, accompanied by a gentle paw on his shoulder. Sanderson hadn't realized he was frantically checking over the boy until that moment. "Take it easy. He's as fine as he could possibly be right now."

Sanderson supposed that was saying a lot. Use of an ancient weapon aside, they couldn't have asked for a better outcome than what was before them. The dream maker settled back in his chair, resting his hand upon Jack's on the bedside. He was content to just watch the boy for a while, so long as it reminded him that yes, they had succeeded, he was really breathing, he was really _safe_.

He remembered soldiering on at Aster's bedside, too, nursing him through the after effects of that horrible purification. He remembered trying to hold him still in his mourning of Old Man Winter, trying to keep the horsehair stitches from coming undone. They had popped anyway…

A cup appeared before his sight, shaking him out of his bloody reverie. He focused on the decorated chalice and its contents. Eggnog! A small hand rested on his shoulder as he took the offered drink, and he looked up to meet a soft, warm smile and bright plumage.

"Hi, Sandy," Tooth greeted. Her amethyst eyes were wise and kind in a way Sanderson wanted so desperately to understand. She had always had this aura about her in times of need, and it shone like the sun now. He smiled back at her, and took a moment to privately marvel at her integrity. "Why don't you take this watch?" she suggested, "We've still got the other room to clean up."

Sanderson sobered a little, but he nodded, happy to be of assistance again. Happy to be happy at all!

As the others left him to watch Jack and sip his eggnog, he started to wonder how he had survived even a few hours locked in his room thinking dark thoughts. To think of spending more time in such a state now truly disturbed him. He shook his head with a conceding sigh, studying the bruised not-dark markings that decorated Jack's chest and arm, and certainly his side under the bandages.

He had been foolish to force himself to search for Pitch so soon, and in such a state. It was crucial not to let the natural darkness of his thoughts plant itself too firmly in his heart, or he would never be rid of it.

He should have recovered sufficiently first; made sure the world's children were set for good dreams before he made his move on the coward.

Oh, nothing would stop him. He just knew he had to be smarter about his mindset now. Every shocking intention was carefully filed away in a close but caged corner of his mind. Sanderson knew himself well enough, though. Wise as he was, he knew that sometimes his own thoughts would fall asleep somewhere in his head, and it could be decades – even centuries – before he would find them again. His plans would have to be brought out and polished on occasion until he was ready to act on them.

And it wouldn't be long.

As soon as he was back to his standard, while the anger was still fresh, Pitch Black would taste the dream maker's special brand of justice.

But, for now, Sanderson took immense comfort in Jack's presence, and settled in to contemplate lighter things until the boy awoke next. Eventually he would have to hassle a yeti to get him another eggnog or three (he did not trust the elves at all with his favorite beverage). And perhaps in a little while, he would (most certainly) take a snooze.

* * *

_Waking up was the hardest thing he'd ever done. Which was strange, because he hadn't recalled falling asleep (or being able to even if he had wanted it), and the urge to wake was so strong it pulled on him with a physical twinge. He couldn't resist the need to be real again, even though it was certainly the most exhausting thing to do._

_For being a boy who woke up all at once, he felt very sleepy-stupid right then. He didn't remember where he was, why he was there, or even how much time had passed since he last had a tangible thought in his head._

_He started with the basics before he dared to open his eyes, fearing the distraction of wax waves._

_There was softness beneath him, the whispery rustling and ridged feel of cloth-covered straw beneath his fingers – he was in bed. Soft, hollow snapping that echoed gently – fire in a hearth far away. Quiet, rhythmic creaking of dry wood against the floor – Ma's rocking chair, and someone was in it. Comforted by the company, the knowledge he wasn't alone, Jack dared a waking breath through his nose._

_Pushing down the pinch at the base of his throat, he focused on the heavy-scented air. Humid and cloying – summer air pregnant with apple blossoms and dusty dogwood. But most importantly, the dancing subtlety of sweet-burning tobacco smoke – Pa's pipe. That gave him the strength to open his eyes._

_He saw the plank ceiling first, lightly aglow with amber light in the far corner of the room. It wasn't what he wanted to see. Jack turned his head – forced stiff muscles to stretch with the movement – toward the creaking of Ma's rocking chair. What he saw was not what he expected, and he wanted to cry with joy at the sight._

_There sat Pa, in Ma's chair. One leg was propped upon his knee, his heel lightly rocking him. One hand held his pipe at the corner of his mouth, the other held his Bible open to his bespectacled eyes._

_But there were dark bags under those eyes. Pa's beard was long and scruffy. His hair was disheveled, and his Sunday clothes (was it a Sunday?) looked rumpled and slept in. He looked tired and half-undone._

_And then Jack's sleep-stupid moment was over. He remembered his friends, and the typhoid, and his pain, and the bloodletting, and the fear…_

"_Pa?" he croaked through parched lips. He held his breath to keep back both the cough and the sudden fear that maybe he was dreaming and he was still sick, or worse…_

_Pa jerked his head up. His Bible was tossed aside, his pipe fell from his lips, and the rocking chair groaned as he darted to the bedside._

"_Jack!" he breathed. He sat, his hands hovering just shy of an embrace, as if afraid. _

_The younger Overland was already close to crying – for a magnitude of reasons – and seeing Pa's eyes fill with tears did not help at all._

"_Oh Jackson," he breathed again, and Jack was lifted by the shoulders and carefully crushed against the large man's chest. "My son!" Unkempt whiskers grazed Jackson's scalp and forehead, sending shivers both pleasant and tingly down his spine._

"_Ma!" Pa was suddenly shouting, cradling Jackson's head to his throat, and the boy found the deep vibrations so very comforting. "Ma, Elli, wake up! Jackson has come back to us!"_

_Jackson made a confused sound. Had he gone somewhere? Before he could ask, the shuffle of stumbling feet and Ma's frantic whispers floated into the room. _

"_Oh, thank God," she rushed, holding her arms out as she reached the bed. Jackson felt a little jostled as Pa's arms let go and Ma's arms took hold, but he was so grateful for the contact that he didn't complain. _

_He heard Elli crying, her telltale hiccups rending a hurtful twinge in his chest. He tried reaching out in the direction of her sound, but found his arm too heavy. Her little fingers took his hand and gripped firmly anyway. Ma's long, sleep-mussed hair curtained him in a warm darkness that made him want to sleep, but he had so many questions._

"_Ma…" he tried to speak, but his voice caught again and this time would not be held back. He began to cough, heavy and wet, but his muscles felt so weak that he couldn't make the action come out as anything more than the pitiful sucking of air. _

"_I was afraid of this," Ma mumbled through his wheezing, "He's been lying down too long." She tipped him back, cradling his neck while she shifted about with her other hand. Jackson lost track of the moments while he struggled to breathe, but he was soon shifted, propped upright against the pillowed headboard. For the life of him, he couldn't make himself stay upright. Pa's hand was covering his chest the next moment, holding his weight as if it were nothing, so Jackson focused on keeping his head up._

"_Keep breathing deep, son," said Pa, and Jack tried. He looked at his family with blurring vision, trying to ask all his questions with his eyes._

_How long was he sick? Why couldn't he even sit up? Were his friends all right? Would _he_ be all right? Had he made anyone else sick? Ma must have understood his expression. She shook her head, running her fingers through his auburn hair._

"_Now isn't the time for questions, Jackson," said she. "We can talk about everything later."_

_He shook his head, but it was floppy. Ma's hand cradled his cheek to steady him._

"_Please…" he gasped. He tried to cough the heaviness out of his chest. Pa sighed._

"_One question," he conceded._

"_My friends?"_

"_Oh Jackson," Elli half-sobbed. Pa huffed in that familiar "of all the things" way, and for a split second Jackson was afraid he had done something wrong. But as Pa scrubbed his face, he looked gaunt. And Ma held a hand to her mouth and looked away, and it reminded Jack of Samuel's tragedy. Dread filled his heart with cold, and he struggled harder to breathe._

"_Pa? Where are they?" he begged; it was the most he had said so far._

"_Five of you were sick, Jackson," Pa confessed, looking so sad and guilty. "Three of you survived."_

"_No," he pleaded. His already weak voice turned thick with sorrow. His eyes were hot and he panted with the effort to hold himself together long enough to ask: "Who?"_

_There was more hesitation. Jackson felt Elli's hands hovering as she knelt on the bed beside him, as if ready to catch his fall at the news. Pa pressed his palm flat on Jack's chest and looked him in the eyes, and his shadows were so _deep_._

"_Jareth and Obadiah were taken."_

"_No…" Jackson pleaded louder. His tears began to fall, and sorrow hit him like a physical force, making him jerk and struggle. "No, not them… No!" he shouted, voice cracking and shrill. Elli's little arms circling him was no comfort. Ma's frantic hushing did not soothe him. Pa's strong support did not prevent his soul from collapsing._

_Because it was his fault._

_Jackson had suggested exploring the old man's cabin. Jackson had not stopped Obi from drinking out of the capped well first. Jackson had thought it more fun to keep their adventure a secret._

_Jackson wailed, and he mourned. His two best friends were gone. Of everyone who could have died, why them? They had been called the Brothers Three by the whole settlement – the best trouble-makers in the whole state of Penn's Woods._

_The Brothers Three was no more. Two were gone, and one lonely boy remained, ruined._

_He could do little but mourn his loss._

He forced himself awake. He pushed at dark edges with a wounded ferocity that made unconsciousness scatter like cockroaches escaping the light. If getting his memories back meant seeing nothing but the bad and the sorrowful, and the death-filled, he would almost rather forget.

Almost.

There were hands upon him, small and warm and comforting. Jack pulled away from them, just has he had tried to that night so long ago. The solid _thunk_ of his skull hitting the headboard made him grunt. It jarred him out of his mourning and frustration so quickly he wasn't sure if the pain was physical or psychological. As his side lit aflame with agony, though, he decided it was both.

The same small hands steadied him, but there was no noise – no words or voice – to tell him who was there. In retrospect, that should have been indication enough. As it was, Jack was too busy focusing on making his spasming muscles relax, and on the taste of eucalyptus gone bitter on the back of his tongue.

Thank the stars he didn't have to cough, at least.

He let himself be steadied and took a moment to breathe (carefully, because that pinch in his chest was definitely there, and it was agony to breathe too deep anyway). If he stayed completely still, the hot-rolling waves of pain were tolerable. _Just_. Nevertheless, staying still and making his muscles relax at the same time was a juggling act he hadn't been prepared for; it took forever to get what little coordination he had under control.

When he was ready to open his eyes, he was confronted by gold. A lot of gold. Gold eyes, gold hair, pale gold skin…

"Sandy," he croaked. Suddenly he was so happy to see the man he didn't know what to do with himself. The older man seemed relieved to hear his name, at least, and he smiled softly. His eyes, though, seemed so sad. For a moment, Jack flashed back to that just-unearthed memory. He spent that moment terrified that he had maybe lost someone again – one of the Guardians – in the turmoil of his shadowing.

Now that Sandy was here, though, he remembered he had seen all of the Guardians since waking up a while ago. The fleeting fear still sent his heart racing with a shock of adrenaline, and it was not something he needed right now… All his muscles tensed again, and it was all he could do to breathe cautiously through his nose and try to relax.

Sandy must have read his troubles in his expression, conjuring a question mark above his head and cinching his expression with concern. Jack shook his head minutely in response, breath turning shallow as he tried to ask.

"Everyone ok?"

Sandy nodded his head emphatically and tried to smile, but he still looked confused. He patted Jack's arm carefully, mindful of the swirling bruises. He looked at a loss for what else to do.

And then it happened. Jack didn't know where it came from, or why, or how it managed to crop up, but he got the compulsion to talk. He _needed_ to get his thoughts out of his head. It was a desire he had felt very little over the last few centuries, and he was back to not really knowing what to do with himself. He just knew he couldn't keep these old deaths – new and fresh and painful again – to himself. He didn't want to deal with both the physical and emotional pain, and the only one he could try to control was that of intangible feelings.

When he opened his mouth, he wasn't sure whether to breathe or start talking, and both tried to happen at the same time. He strangled out a careful cough, got himself under control, closed his eyes against his pride, and spoke quietly, shortly between raspy breaths.

"I-I had a dream. No. Was a memory. My friends and I. We got sick. They died. I lived. Felt so bad…" he couldn't keep his tone even, and he felt ridiculously ashamed. Sandy squeezed his hand, untouched by tender bruises, and held it in both of his. Jack felt bolstered, if only a little.

"I was afraid. Just got a family. Don't wanna lose anyone. Would be my fault again."

Sandy flicked his wrist, and Jack's blurry vision was met with a withering glare. The dream maker held that gaze, and huffed a breath sharply through his nose. In a way, Jack wished for sand images to help him, but he was also grateful there were none – it would probably make him dizzy and cross-eyed. He figured he got a clear enough message, though.

Exasperation, annoyance, correction… Sandy's thought on the subject was that illness was the fault of no one, and blame shouldn't be placed where it did not belong.

"Sorry," Jack conceded with a sad grin. "Thought it was my fault, back then. Hard not to think that way. Even if I didn't remember for… a long time."

Sandy gave a conciliatory nod, his expression softening into a warm smile. Some of his sadness seemed to have crawled away, but a shadow of melancholy still stuck around. Once he took a moment to think about it, everyone had those same clinging, ghostly expressions on their faces. It was easy for his tired mind to recognize it because he had seen that face in his parents, and now he couldn't forget the expression even if he tried.

It was guilt, plain as the frost on winter windows. Jack was starting to think that maybe his new family was sad that they had had to hurt him in order to help him.

Did they have to do it? Yes. Would it haunt him for a while? Certainly. Did it make them any less of a second chance family? Definitely not. He'd hardly been around them for a week (if he hadn't lost too much time in La La Land…) and they had already taught him so much, helped him so much, and even learned from their own mistakes regarding him.

And that was what families were supposed to do. Besides, he'd been alone long enough; he wasn't about to let guilt isolate him from them further. But he wasn't sure he had the energy to bring it up just then.

He needn't have worried. Sandy made a rolling motion with his hand, indicating Jack continue. … Continue with what?

"Hm?" he asked. Oh-so-intelligent…

The conjured image of a book appeared, the cover clearly reading _Jack Frost_, even to the winter spirit's tired gaze. Sandy placed his chin in his free hand and reclined on his elbow, leaning forward and looking intent.

He wanted to hear more of Jack's story. While Jack considered it a sad story, perhaps all the dream maker was asking was for the story of Jack's past as a whole. Either way, the younger was too tired to question it, and too glad of the company to refuse it.

So Jack talked. It made him tired, and sometimes he had to stop to breathe through pain and exhaustion, but it was worth the rapt attention of the elder Guardian. Jack kept talking, saying whatever came to mind about his years as Jackson Overland. It felt good to get some of the recollections of his chest, and he felt safe letting Sandy know, for who better to stay confidential than a dream maker?

He talked about the typhoid and about the Brothers Three. He talked about Elli and saving her. He talked about his parents and how he learned some of his mischievous tricks from them. As he grew more tired, he bounced from subject to subject like a Ping-Pong ball, but Sandy didn't seem to mind, and the guilty shadows on the man's face were starting to lift.

It didn't take long for Jack to catch himself drifting off in the middle of a sentence, but he tried to pick up again and keep going. Sandy's fingers finally left his hand in favor of his forehead, gently sweeping through white bangs and over magically cool skin. It was signal enough that Jack could stop talking if he wanted to.

With a tiny sigh the winter spirit gathered the last of his energy to say something very important, something to keep chasing those ghostly shadows of guilt away.

"Sandman… Thanks for saving my life."

The man's hand stilled in his hair for a moment, but Jack was already a world away.

* * *

Toothiana hovered in the doorway, clutching at her chest while she tried not to sob aloud. She had only come to check on her boys, and had caught the end of a touching moment that left her feeling as if the youngest Guardian had turned her heart inside out.

As Jack's eyes drifted shut in peaceful sleep, Sanderson Mansnoozie hunched over the bedside. He cradled his head in his hands and coughed out a silent sob, his face shifting into a tightly marred mask of anguish. The fairy wanted so badly to go to him and embrace him.

But she was afraid.

Afraid that her presence might shatter the fragile beginnings of peace Jack had tried to instill in the much older Guardian. So, tears flowing, she backed into the hallway and aimed for the kitchen. A treat was in order here: a big mug of warm eggnog seemed appropriate for her friend. (And a complimentary toothbrush.)

The profoundness of Jack's wisdom was not lost on her. His way of thinking, the things he noticed, the way he handled himself and others, was both uneducated and amazingly, naturally brilliant. How could it be that the injured party was more stable than his caretakers in the midst of everything?

Regardless of how out of place it seemed, it was much needed. Tooth wouldn't question the importance of Jack's acceptance of what they had done to him and why. What confounded her was how easily he seemed to be doing so – just like he had accepted being a Guardian in three days, after 300 years of solitude and loneliness-borne trouble making. She sighed as she entered the kitchen.

What confounded her was Jack.

Just… Jack.

There was no other way to try explaining it to herself. Everything seemed to come so easily to the winter spirit: forgiveness and acceptance, fun and mischief, social graces and teenage recklessness, caring for children and being a child, uncanny luck and horrible fortune… Frankly, the kid was alarming just being in the same room with him. When one got to know him, he was even more of an enigma.

And in amongst all of that (or despite it, Tooth really wasn't sure,) was a truth. A fact that she couldn't deny, and which made her feel so thankful and so sophomoric at the same time she had to giggle through her tears and lean against the counter while it all sank in.

Days ago, when he was healthy and mischievous and still an outsider, Jack had schooled the older Guardians in what it meant to live for the children. Now, even while weak, injured, and half-conscious at best for mere minutes at a time, Jack was still schooling them. He was teaching them what it meant to be a family, just by being himself.

Despite all the flaws, all the complicated history, and all the turmoil, they were a family now. And, as long as Jack Frost was with them, they would stay that way.

* * *

**Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay – life got hectic. I ran into an incredibly challenging time that took a lot of prayer and strength to get through, but after looking on the bright side and counting my blessings, I'm ready to pick myself up again. I have to say I'm pretty happy with how this chapter turned out, despite the delay. The next chapter is already half-edited, so I'll get that posted soon, too.**

**Thanks for your patience, everybody. I really appreciate it, and I promise I won't leave you hanging indefinitely. The story will be picking up on the excitement scale pretty soon! **

**Just one more quick thing: The question was asked whether there would be Jack/Bunnymund romance in the future, and I have to say no on that one. I'm not sure I'll ever develop a taste for any particular pairing from the RoTG universe. BUT, I do so enjoy Jack and Bunnymund bonding time, so they'll get a lot of the spot light. There will also be plenty of family development with the rest of the characters.**

**Thanks to all my most awesomest reviewers, because you guys take the time at the end of every chapter to let me know what you think, and you are most amazing for doing so: Alaia Skyhawk, KatFromHell, juniper294, kyuubecky, Catflower Queen, Vampires United, My5tic-Lali, hope is my life, Galimatias, RainyDayinAstrasia, TaintedPerspective, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, WRATH77, Dragowolf, IstariannaCrudgo, Lolxxx, Eternal She-Wolf, Faoi Na Realtai, RedKetchup, Doppler Effect, DragonflyonBreak, XCountrySkiier03, Cuni Luni, lilyflower5189, Night-Fury1, and E.**

**Thanks also, of course, to everyone who has read, faved, and followed **_**Shadowed Victory**_**. It means so very much to me that I can share this fanfiction experience with you, and that you're taking to the time to read my stuff. It gives me warm fuzzies!**

**See you all very soon!**

**~mj**


	12. Collaborations and Hallucinations

He could not concentrate.

He hadn't fabricated or designed a single thing in days. But no matter how hard he stared at the block of ice before him, St Nick could not see the potential and wonder within it. He was too busy glaring at his frozen reflection to find his muse.

He poked at it petulantly with his chisel.

Perhaps the source of his distraction was the blasted box sitting on the windowsill. The box Aster had made centuries ago. The box that contained within it the long-disenchanted dagger of a spirit past. The box that teased Nicholas St. North with the memory of his hand gripping the pearl handle, and driving it into a pale boy who didn't deserve to be hurt anymore.

North grabbed his mug, took a big swig of coffee, and let it scald his throat on the way down. He hadn't been sleeping well. Try as he might to act like the soldier he used to be, this situation played too harshly against his center. He could not distance himself from what had happened, nor bury it in the dark recesses of his mind.

He knew he had done the right thing to save a life. However, getting used to the consequences of his actions didn't make the pill any less jagged. It was still hard to swallow – would be for a long time. It was just…

Being in the same room with that damned knife was driving him up the wall. For lack of a better place to put it, the dagger and its box had been sitting the corner window of the design room since Phil the yeti had brought it to him, cleaned of Jack's blood, asking what to do with it. No one had a good answer, and destroying it didn't seem right. In a way they all wanted it gone, but the bottom line was that it had saved two Guardians, and who knew how many other souls had found their salvation from the Shadows through the razor edges of that blade? Once it had been set on the sill, he hadn't found the gumption to move it to a less intrusive place.

And so, for three days, that cursed thing sat there, and North couldn't find peace in what used to be his haven.

"Mate, I keep telling you to put that thing somewhere out of sight."

North was both annoyed and grateful for Bunny's unannounced presence. He turned in his chair to glare half-heatedly at the Pooka. His retort died in his throat when he took in his friend's appearance. The bracers, shoulder pack and boomerangs were all back in place, and Bunny looked like he wanted to say something. He always looked like something was lodged up his rear end when he wanted to speak but didn't know how to broach the subject.

"You are leaving?"

Bunny shifted as he answered.

"Not for long. I need to get back to the Warren and check up on everything. Haven't been away this long in ages."

North nodded his understanding. The only Guardian who had been home for any length since the battle and Jack's subsequent Shadowing had been North – and that was only because most of the messy stuff had taken place in his fortress. Bunny had not been to his warren, Tooth had been to her palace only briefly, and Sandy had not been with the children for many nights. They were probably all aching to depart, even if they didn't want to leave Jack.

"Go see to your home, Bunny."

"Won't be gone long," the Pooka repeated. "You'll send word if anything happens with Frost?"

"Of course."

Bunny nodded, then shifted again. He reached under the lip of his bracer, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He cleared his throat awkwardly while he held the sheet out for North to take.

"Was wondering if you could help me with this," he mumbled.

North took the paper and glanced over it. His eyes followed the simple lines and precise text that took up the space of the page.

"I know it's not much, but I thought it'd be nice for the kid to have something like it when he starts feeling better." North nodded, secretly admiring the Pooka's good design work.

"Is good idea, Bunny. And I can help make this?"

"Well yeah… I mean anything outside of eggs and chocolate isn't really my medium of choice so…"

"Ha!" North guffawed, and suddenly his belly felt so much better. "I suppose is true. I am happy to help. It will be done in no time!"

Bunny smiled a little at the returning enthusiasm. His ears even perked forward when North laughed again, this time with excitement.

"That's ace, mate. Hop to it. Toothy'll come to get you when it's your turn to watch the runt. I'm out for a few."

"Go, go, slow bunny," North teased, and Bunny didn't seem to mind.

With a nod and a tap of his paw, Bunny was gone. North stood and stretched, breathing deep to loosen tense muscles and wake up his belly. Then he plopped back down, turned back to his block, and set Bunny's sketch in easy reach. He got his old record player going, taking a careful moment to choose the right vinyl to suit his mood. As Russia's symphony orchestra filled the room with crescendos and bold brass, North picked up a large chisel and hammer, and the tinkling cracks and taps of work filled the room.

For the first time in three days, the box in the corner window sat devoid of its singular shroud of doom to the man. And for the first time in three days, North was truly looking forward to his next watch on Jack. Thoughts of playing a joke to spark some mischief in the boy brought an extra sparkle to the saint's eyes. Surely, jokes would be good for Jack's center. Perhaps soon, the young Guardian would even be well enough to pull a real prank on Bunny! What fun the two winter souls would have. What fun, and wonder!

* * *

Tooth buzzed through the corridors, glancing here and there for the man of the house. She held a tincture in her hands, delivered from her palace by a few of her fairies. She wanted to explain what it was to North before she left to go check on her little ones and the state of the palace.

She found him in the kitchen, raiding a plate of cookies. This made her pause. He hadn't been eating much since Jack's purification. It had worried her a bit, not because he really needed to eat, but because of the distinct change in his behavior.

Now, though, as he happily crunched the head off a gingerbread man, he seemed to be in a perfectly genial mood.

"Not that it isn't great to see," Tooth said as she entered the kitchen, "but what has you so happy?"

"Tooth!" North greeted between crumbs, holding his arms out wide. "Bunny had a good idea for gift for Jack. I am having yetis fabricate from my ice design as we are speaking."

Her wings paused for a split second, making her sink in the air before they picked up again. This, as it turned out, mirrored the hiccup her brain experienced.

"Wait, wait." Tooth held up her hands, making North freeze mid-bite. "Are you telling me you two are _collaborating_?" North looked unsure now.

"Is that strange?"

Tooth took a moment to think about it, setting herself demurely on the counter beside him, and snatching a pecan sandy from the cookie plate. He leaned his elbows casually on the countertop, waiting for her answer, and she took her time, munching away.

"Well," she finally ventured, "strange isn't the word I'd use. It's just surprising. I didn't expect you two to be working together so closely after the battle."

"That would probably be true, if not for Jack," he replied. North sighed, rubbing at his thick beard. "That boy has brought us together so quickly. It is wonder we weren't so close before, but I think we needed him to show us what we were missing."

Tooth could only nod. She finished her cookie in the companionable (if a little somber) silence, then asked,

"So what are you making for him?"

"Is not much," North smiled, "but it should keep Jack comfortable while he is recovering." Tooth nodded again, choosing to be happy with the vague answer. Her mind was on to other things, like needing to brush her teeth and get home.

"Speaking of comfort," she segued, "I had my fairies get this from home." She offered the tincture bottle to North. "A few drops of that will keep Jack so comfortable he won't even know he's in pain. I thought he could use it for the next few days to get him through until he's ready to start walking around."

North held the ornate bottle to the light and eyed the contents. She watched him scrutinize its color and consistency as if he were a scientist. It made her want to giggle, but she was glad North was taking Jack's care seriously enough to inspect it first.

"There's one drawback to it," she continued. "It's a little hallucinogenic. Not terribly disorienting, but it might make him see funny things if he's awake. Sort of like the eternal spirit's version of morphine."

"Hm… Bunny's medicine to cure coughing and dull pain, and your medicine to make him numb and loopy?"

"I suppose," Tooth conceded. "But would you rather have him trying to get out of bed or coerce the elves because he's bored and awake?"

North laughed a laugh that said 'not on your life!' quite clearly.

"Just for a little while, then," he said, and Tooth nodded.

"I want to go check on the Palace again. Think you'll be okay without me for a few hours?"

"We'll be fine," North reassured her. "Bunny has been gone for a while, so he should be back soon."

"Good. Sandy's watching Jack for a little while, but I think he still needs rest. He looks distracted…"

"Is my turn to watch Jack, then," said North, straightening and grabbing another cookie. "Have you seen Sandy this somber before?"

"Only once," Tooth answered quietly. "After Bunny's shadowing, he just didn't seem like himself for a while. It was... disheartening."

Tooth tried not to think about how the Sandman had been a changed man, and how it had scared her straight to her core. But North's huge, warm hand was gentle on her shoulder the next moment.

"We'll figure it out," he said, and his soft, sincere rumble was enough to comfort her for now.

Tooth smoothed her feathers, feeling them fall back into place with her renewed sense of contentment. Everything would work out. Everything would be fine. They just had to be patient. And after decades of trying to get children to floss, Tooth knew patience like she knew her minis.

* * *

_Ma and Pa were whispering again. They had been doing that a lot more lately, and their conversations kept drawing longer and longer into the night. The children were in bed, though the elder sibling laid awake and listened. The wall separating the bedroom from the rest of the tiny house did nothing to mask their words. Jackson wished it did._

"_What else can we do, John?" Ma was saying. "He needs to marry soon; how will he support a family?"_

"_We can't afford it," replied Pa. "And at this time of year it would be too much; he's sure to fall ill if we try. Besides, the children would be heartbroken if we left the settlement."_

"_You said that last year," Ma sighed. "I'm beginning to think you don't want your son to succeed."_

"_Mary, don't say such things," Pa replied too loudly, for Ma shushed him. But Jackson knew the tone in his father's voice – he was sad and frustrated and hurting, like when Grandpa had passed a few years ago. He didn't like hearing that tone concerning him._

"_I love my son, you know that. But Mary, think carefully over the year. Jackson has tried the mines, the smithy, the fields, and shepherding. He wasn't healthy or strong enough for any of them, and he's getting weaker."_

_In the heavy silence that followed, Jackson felt the bed move under him. His little sister scooted closer, probably for warmth (warming him up, that is, because he was always the colder of the two), and pulled the heavy quilt closer around them both. He hugged her little shoulders to him and kissed her hair to keep her sleeping. _

"_It's just the remnants of the typhoid," Ma finally said. "And he's a smart boy! If we moved to a town, I'm sure he could find a job that suits his mind."_

"_The fever was over a year ago. Jackson is the only survivor that hasn't regained his strength." There was a pause, the shuffling scrape Ma's rocking chair did whenever she stood from it._

"_What are you implying, John?" Ma whispered brokenly._

_There was a long silence again, and Jackson found himself hanging on the proverbial edge. A small, warm hand touched his chest. Jackson let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and looked down to meet Elli's eyes. Her hand rubbed small circles over his nightshirt, alerting him to the shortness of his breath._

"_You shouldn't be listening," she whispered. "It always makes you upset."_

"_I'm fine," he mumbled._

"_You're gasping, and they'll hear." She pushed ruddy brown bangs out of his face and kept rubbing circles. He let her; it was a small comfort in the face of a reality he was only just starting to understand._

"_Oh, wife…" mumbled Pa, sounding thick and sorrowful. "I believe our son is dying."_

It was the whispering above him that roused him. It was the rolling waves of pain that made him moan. It was the moan that stuck in his throat that made him cough. It was the cough that made the pain spike. And the pain made him really _really_ awake, really fast.

The ease with which his body started to curl in while he gasped made him aware that he was lying on his side, but outside of that, nothing went beyond a singular thought dredged up from his memories.

"Oh… god, I'm dying," he spluttered. There was pressure against his side then, and even though it hurt tremendously, the pain wasn't as sharp as the stab that came with every cough. Low, soft words were spoken. He didn't know what they meant, but it was calming all the same. He recognized the voice, though. That was North.

His hand somehow found its way over the top of the hand that was already there, pushing down, trying to get more pressure so his insides would not become outsides while he was busy hacking up a lung. When the fit finally passed he was exhausted and gasping. North withdrew his hand, and Jack had just enough sense (and air) to wheeze out a thank-you. He got a humorless chuckle in return.

"I know what is like to cough with a wound like that," the Saint clarified.

Jack didn't like that it was hard just to breathe – each inhale felt wet and heavy. Too much like drowning. While he didn't remember his first death in much detail, he had borne the process enough to know what dying felt like. This seemed awfully close.

At least it didn't feel like he was drowning in oil…

He felt like maybe he would breathe better if he were on his back, rather than his side. He would have liked to have turned over if moving wasn't so horrible.

"Take it easy, Jack," North soothed. "Try to relax."

"Oh, sure! No problem," he growled through clenched teeth. His whole body was tense, nearly trembling with his discomfort. He had to wonder how much damage had been done to get the darkness out. He didn't feel brave enough to ask yet.

North was muttering something over his shoulder, if Jack's swimming gaze didn't lie. The distinct warble of yeti-speak was closely followed by a big hairy lug leaving the room. That would explain the floating voices that woke him up, most likely. He'd have really enjoyed going back to sleep in that moment, he was sure. North just kept talking, but at least it was a tiny distraction.

"My being here was good timing. We didn't think you would wake so often yet."

"Yeah, well… a few centuries of survival can hardwire you funny," said Jack by way of explanation. He wasn't making a cutting remark, merely stating the truth. As an afterthought, he hoped North could see that. He met North's gaze from the corner of his to make sure.

There was a flash of guilt in the giant's eyes, but then it was gone as he hummed and pulled on his beard.

"Makes sense. A little like bandit," he finally mused. Jack grinned a little between labored breaths. The yeti reappeared, offering a brightly colored bottle. North took it with a nod of thanks. "We have two medicines now. This one will help with pain," he said, measuring the dropper carefully. "It goes under tongue, like the other one."

Jack took both tinctures obediently; he was no fool to the way of home remedies. The familiar sharp bite of wintergreen stung the underside of his tongue and pierced into his jaw a bit, and the cloying taste of the eucalyptus stuff made it difficult to swallow for a few tries. The results, though, were the product of a small miracle.

"What happened? How long was I out?" he managed after a while. Drowsiness came quickly on the heels of the mild relief – clearly his body had not been ready to wake up at all.

"Oh, a lot happened, Jack. We'll talk about that when you're feeling better."

"Ok…" he sing-songed into the pillow. Boy that stuff worked good! "Wha's 'n thah shtuff?" …Was he slurring? Why were his insides starting to itch? There were dancing spots on the wall…

North let out a guffaw. "Secret recipe. It works good, yes?"

"Eeeeyah. C'n I have more?" He liked this silly thing going on. It felt really, really good. He still hurt – unimaginably so – but it was really kinda cool the way he felt like laughing at it. Silly Santa Claus and his awesome remedies…

"Eh, no." North's voice came through a little warbled, but Jack was immensely disappointed at having his request turned down. "You are total light weight. I gave you maybe too much already."

"…Why? Wha's 'n' 't?" he insisted, and it took much concentration.

Another chuckle. Jack felt really warm and annoyed now. He took a breath to draw in the wintergreen and eucalyptus vapors, and coughed a little.

"Is wintergreen, a few herbs, lots of sugar, and just the right touch of absinthe. Don't tell Bunny, yes?"

Jack was suddenly very much awake, for about three seconds. Long enough to shout (read as whine): "You gotta be kidding. That stuff's illegal!" The grin on North's face was too wide to not be blinded by it. Jack wanted the silly fuzzy feeling to – oh. There it was. Sweet. Baby. Cheese moon. … What?

"Is illegal in US, maybe. Not in Europe. And I am European down to the bones!" North laughed.

"Go 'way," was all Jack could think to say, he flapped his half-pinned right arm at the tower of jolly because his left, which was on top (if he was remembering his left from his right) was far too sore to bother with. "Sleepen…"

"Yes," North agreed heartily. "For a good, long while."

He felt a gentle pat on his head, and he was out like… those moving dot things were really cool. Wait. What was he doing?

* * *

Little did Jack know that his secret needn't have been kept. North left Jack's care to Phil's turn in the rotation, and closed the door behind him, eyes focused on the sleeping boy until he was out of sight. This whole exchange had left him feeling a little more lighthearted.

When he turned to leave, though, he came face to face with Bunnymund. And it would have been fine, except that he was standing tall, had his arms crossed over his chest, and that weird keeping-cool/annoyed look on his fuzzy features.

"Don't tell Bunny, eh?" he said lightly. "Whyever not?"

North managed a sheepish chuckle.

"So what's the next step for his recovery, then? Take him to the nearest boozer and let him have at it?"

"Bah!" North scoffed. "You sound like old man."

"Well the one who's supposed to be the 'Old Man' apparently missed the train," Bunny growled back. His ears fell back in annoyance, and North had to laugh.

"My friend," he soothed. "I wouldn't give him fermented drink; not in his current state, at least. It was just a remedy Tooth brought from the Palace. One you received after your own shadowing. I fibbed to him to plant a little seed of mischief."

"Keeping a secret from me," Bunny caught on.

"Yes! I was thinking maybe it would give his center a jolt, help him recover faster."

"Did it have to be alcohol, North?" the Pooka sighed, rubbing his forehead. North shrugged.

"It was on a whim. Not my best idea."

"Too right…"

There was an awkward silence after that. It wasn't as if spirits didn't enjoy … eh… spirits, now and again. North's own upbringing as a mortal had instilled him with a certain pride for the ability to hold one's liquor. But it was difficult to remember that Jack was just as much adult as he was eternal child.

After a moment, North lifted a hand to indicate the general direction of the kitchen, and together they made their slow way.

"How is Sandy?" North ventured, trying to find a less scold-worthy territory.

"Napping, far as I can tell," Bunny sighed. But North had seen the Pooka, practically a sentinel at Sandy's door when he wasn't watching Jack.

"You have been keeping close watch over him, I notice. Is something wrong?"

Bunny sighed as they entered the kitchen, rubbing the ridge of fur on his head as he thought for a moment. "Nah, not wrong. Just… I feel like he's got something up his sleeve, is all."

"Eggnog or cocoa?" North grunted. He went about busying himself with mugs, spoons, and cocoa powder. Bunny hoisted himself onto the kitchen island and stretched out his sore knee – not exactly couth…

"Please, make yourself comfortable…" North remarked coolly, though it wasn't as if the Pooka warrior would care even if North said something about it.

"Coffee, if you've got it," came the answer to his previous question. The rest of Bunny curled in that relaxed rabbit way that made North want to tease him, but the way his front end seemed to weigh heavily on his curled arms spoke of a warrior still exhausted. North approached him, getting into his personal space and eyeing him seriously.

"You are not resting like you should be," he observed. Bunny nearly cowed under the scrutiny, but didn't dare break his gaze from North's gentle blue. "And this is because you think Sandy is plotting something?"

"I dunno… Yeah," Bunny admitted. One ear twitching aside, finding sounds North couldn't hope to hear. "I don't have solid evidence. I just feel it, I guess."

"In your belly?" North chuckled with a twinkle in his eye and focused on the mugs before him again.

"Heheh, very funny," Bunny snarked. "It's the ears, if you must know." North looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. The other large ear twitched aside, as if to prove his point.

"Hmph. Shame. Belly is better."

Bunny glared. North turned back to his kitchen tools, deciding his friend would not get coffee today, and would have to deal with cocoa instead. It brought a tiny smile to his lips.

"Anyway," Bunny plowed on. "I'm worried Sandy might do something drastic because of Jack's shadowing."

"Hm… Sandy doesn't seem like Sandy," North muttered. He shoved a curious elf away with a Russian grumble.

"I know." Bunny sighed, tucking chest to chin. His nose twitched in heavy thought, and it gave North enough time to make his cocoa just the way he liked it – the only perfect way there was: shaken. Not stirred. He set it before his comrade, and Bunny's nose took on an even more furious rhythm. He looked up with a glare.

"This isn't –"

"Just drink it."

They sipped silently for a time. The Wonder Guardian bent down to lean his elbows casually on the other side of the island. Finally, Bunny dragged in a deep breath.

"You saw how he was acting, North. You know as well as I do that any action that causes the Sandman to lose his temper will be met with retribution."

"Wait. Wait," North sighed. He rubbed his forehead, already feeling stretched thin by this line of conversation. "You think Sandy will seek revenge on Pitch?"

"I know it doesn't seem like him. But I can't shake the feeling that this was something he planned to do if another Guardian was ever shadowed. He promised me it would never happen to one of us again."

North whistled a breath through his nose, took a long drag of cocoa, and tugged his beard. He knew, as a soldier and a bandit, what it meant to promise something. He knew what it was like to watch that promise shatter and know he couldn't have done anything to stop it. He knew the rage that was felt at oneself for that sort of failure. And he knew what it meant for that rage to be directed at the entity who caused that promise to shatter.

"You and I have both felt it before. The need to get back at someone for a wrong can be overwhelming. It can crawl under your skin and eat you alive… It changes a person, North."

As men of their word, the Guardians knew what it was to feel the unrepentant, red-tinged rage that demanded revenge, demanded penance. As Guardians, they could not risk falling into that pit. It would destroy them, strip them of their trustworthiness as the protectors of children. They had to be above the darkness that crept in every heart, and thrived on human nature itself.

They could not lose their most ancient wise friend to that darkness, however small the chances.

"What would you do if Sandy decided to descend to Pitch's lair, Aster?" North found himself asking. He couldn't look up from the swirling foam coils of chocolate.

"If he plans to seek revenge, I will do whatever it takes to stop him from going down that road."

North looked up, leery of the 'if' in the statement. So he followed the thread, because he needed to know what could potentially change nearly half the team of Guardians.

"And if it is not for revenge?"

E. Aster Bunnymund looked into his eyes then, and the fire in that gaze brought to mind the wildfires that swept over grassy plains. Every fiber of the Pooka's being was set in stone in that moment as he answered.

"I plan to help him."

* * *

**Back in the early settling days, homes were usually small, and the children always shared a bed. Sometimes the only closed off room in the house was the master bedroom where the ma and pa slept, for obvious (baby-making) reasons. So I imagine the home Jack grew up in to be small, with the children's bed maybe in a corner off of the living area. I dunno if this helps visualize the place at all, but it was how my brain worked it out, so there ya go.**

**This chapter was pretty North-heavy, but he hasn't been getting much love lately, so I had to fix it. I know there was lots of talking in this chapter, too. That particular pattern is starting to bug me a little (I love reading this kind of stuff when it's well-written, though), but we're getting to the point where downtime is coming to a close, so the action will be picking up. Woot!**

**Also, I was getting concerned that Sandy was presenting a little too OOC for too long. I do have good reasons for his behavior, so I hope this chapter helped settle any possible trepidations on the matter until we get to that point in the plot. I'm very grateful that my reviewers feel comfortable letting me know how they feel about my portrayal of the characters, as it helps me stay on track with be the best writer I can be. Thanks, guys!**

**And of course, especially warm thanks to: KatFromHell, demonsLOver, savedbygrace94, Night-Fury1, not-exactly-the-truth, Dragowolf, Smoochynose, Galimatias, hope is my life, kyuubecky, Magiccatprincess, Guest, Fumus000, Alaia Skyhawk, ThatOneFan, Catflower Queen, XCountrySkiier03, pianogirl89, Lolxxx, E, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, Ann Camp aka Obi-quiet, Chuni Luni, Awesome1313, and MartialArtsDancer. You're all amazing and wonderful to me!**

**Thank you, also, to everyone who has taken the time to favorite, follow, and read Shadowed Victory. You make me smile until it hurts, and that's a great thing. **

**I love you all!**

**~mj**


	13. Ethereal Dangers

Sanderson Mansnoozie loved his children. He loved their innocence. He loved their imagination. He loved their love, for they loved spirits and legends and Guardians – gave them their lifeblood – without ever knowing it most of the time.

He breathed deep the cold night air of the upper atmosphere, feeling somewhat purified of his ire. The endless web of his knowledge stretched out like gossamer over the city below, opening up his awareness to every child, to every desire of every innocent heart. The information flowed in, and the affection and blossoming imagination flowed out in flawless filigrees and dancing dust. Golden streams tangled around his fingers like an old friend. He gave each tendril its task, sending it out with a sliver of his mind and heart.

Magic.

He had missed it. He had missed his children so much – missed tucking them in each endless night. He had missed seeing their visions and hopes for their future. He had missed watching the patchwork quilt of the world change below him, still knowing every child that resided in every corner. It didn't matter whether it was a home or a shanty or a lean-to or the blanket of nature herself. He had missed giving the simplest of dreams to the unfortunate ones, giving them enough enchantment to get up in the morning and struggle to live another day, for they were his most precious.

He loved them all so much. How had he forgotten? How could he have spent days in dark thoughts, holed up in the corner of a room in which he was a privileged guest? How could he have left the children alone for days?

It saddened him to know the answer to that question. The constant ache in his chest would not let him forget. He had hoped tending to the children would help ease his discomfort, and it did to a degree. But it was not enough to vanquish the sensation completely, or the threat it carried with it.

In his weakness, Sandy's brief struggle with the desire for revenge – for unmitigated punishment on another being – had left its mark on his center. Perhaps it was a lingering wound on his center from Pitch's dark arrow. Perhaps it was because of the days he had spent in Pitch's cloak of darkness. Perhaps it was the exhaustion he suffered after Jack's purification.

Perhaps the shadows had infected him in the process.

He didn't know what caused this wrongness, only that it was his fault somehow, and that it would worsen if he left it be. He had already experienced the changes in his behavior – his dark thoughts, his search for a broken boogieman, the horrifying plans that had flashed through his head, and his full-hearted intention to carry out every terrible task.

There was darkness in Sanderson Mansnoozie, and if he left it alone, it would consume him. It would be an arduous and excruciating process, but he would eventually meet his demise because of it. He had to do something to release the shadows.

Purification wouldn't work.

His body was both corporeal and ethereal. Unlike the other Guardians and many other spirits, he could be both tangible (and he usually was) or become one with his element. That uniqueness had preserved his life during the most recent battle with Pitch. But flushing out the shadows would not be as easy as accepting external help from someone else. His dark desires had to be placated and purification done from within.

But what he wanted was revenge, and following through on such an action would be enough to strip him of Guardianship. It could also be enough to strip him of his humanity, not drive the darkness out.

It could make him the next boogieman.

Sanderson called his sand back to him. This area's children were all tucked in and happy for the night. He moved on to the next sector, feeling his fatigue set in already. Only half the world was tucked in. He had to make it through one full rotation of good dreams before he set to his next task.

Sanderson had to find a way to satisfy and banish his dark desire before the darkness began to consume him with fervor.

He had no idea what he was going to do.

* * *

"Please?"

"No."

"_Please?"_

"No, Jack."

"Aw come on, why not? I feel great!" Jack's huffing whine was met with a flat stare.

"Can you see straight?"

Jack giggled.

"I thought not," Tooth sighed. "So the answer is still no."

The winter spirit glared dramatically at her, but he was almost instantly distracted by something. His expression turned to awe as his eyes followed an object she could not see, and she had to wonder (not for the first time) what he was seeing in his drug haze.

"I'm hungry," he said without preamble.

"That's why I'm sitting here, sweetie. I have some broth for you." That she had been trying to feed him for the last hour. She'd told him about it thrice already – this was the fourth, and she was ready to give up. At least he wasn't slurring his words as much with the lighter dose of her remedy. When he glared at her again, though, she thought maybe the stronger dose kept him loopy enough to stay out of trouble.

"I will get up and go find real food," he mumbled, and it sounded suspiciously like a threat. As if the knowledge he was only sitting up because of the pillows behind him held no weight at all.

"Is that so?" Toothiana rebuffed. The plumage adorning her head ruffled a little, completing the 'I'd like to see you try' challenge etched into her delicate features. On the inside, she was ready to burst into grateful tears at having to rein the restless frost child.

Restlessness was a sign of healing, after all.

"Fine," she stated, setting the broth aside and holding up delicate hands in surrender. "Go ahead, get up and go cause trouble. Just remember you're naked under that sheet, and I'm not telling you where your clothes are."

There was sudden clarity in Jack's eyes (which had been happening more and more over the last three days), and his smirk was evil.

"You say that like I've never gone streaking before."

…

Tooth could not breathe for a moment.

Then she choked on her own spit.

She knew Jack's laughter would have been a lot louder – so much freer – if it didn't hurt him so much to do it.

"Jack!" she finally found the air to scold. "That's not funny, we work with children!"

He shrugged helplessly, though the gesture was limited. "I was bored and I was invisible. So sue me." He flashed a grin. Despite her embarrassment and shock, she had to squash the urge to stick her fingers in his mouth and ogle those pearly whites.

The room went silent for a while after that. Jack leaned his head back against the pillows and stared helplessly at the ceiling. Tooth knew he was bored, and she cringed to think what kind of trouble the professional prankster would get into once he was truly lucid and well enough to move about on his own.

For now, the Guardians' saving grace was Jack's need to rest. The peace could last for a few more days, or another week – no one really knew. It all depended on how long it took his center to recover from fighting off the darkness. Until then, he was as weak as any of his beloved children.

Jack's eyes were starting to look heavy, and Tooth didn't have the heart to make him eat. Bunny or North could deal with that later. So, she reached out to hold his hand, watching him drift into light sleep.

But then the booming thunder of an angry Ruski startled them both. Jack jolted awake, seizing up when his muscles protested the shock. Tooth tried to soothe him, but his pained groan was enough to tell her she was of no help.

"Easy, Jack," she hushed. She pressed lightly on his side when he held back a cough. His hand was pressing over hers a second later, silently begging her to press harder as the air left him in something between a wheeze and a strong hack. Tooth leaned more of her weight on him, fearing she would hurt him for pushing down on the wounds while he lay on his back – it was hard enough for him to tolerate any weight on his battered side. He threw his head back against the pillows and squeezed his eyes shut while he tried to breathe.

The fairy, though her very heart trembled, was torn between expressing her annoyance at the Saint's lack of forethought, or forgetting about him and focusing solely on Jack. By the time she had made up her mind, though, Jack was starting to calm. And wouldn't you know it – North chose that exact moment to waltz into the room.

"So! How is little warrior?" he asked jovially. It was as if he hadn't been yelling at yetis and elves just seconds earlier, and Tooth caught herself gaping at him.

"Awake and in pain, no thanks to you," she snapped.

"No, it's fine," Jack was quick to gasp.

"It's not _fine_. He could be courteous about _yelling in hallways _when you're sleeping."

"Ah, I didn't realize," North began, looking sheepish.

"Stop!" Jack barked, and the sound wasn't loud so much as sharp. It made Tooth's mind freeze long enough to bring her out of her building tirade before she had even begun. She and North watched Jack tentatively, waiting for him to find the breath to speak. He met them both with a glazed, half-lidded gaze.

"Just stop… You guys have been courteous for days… And it's driving me nuts. I don't know what to do with all this care." He had to break again, but the cinch in his brow made it clear he wasn't finished. For her part, Tooth wasn't sure what to say anyway, so she kept quiet and let the words sink in.

She couldn't blame him for what he said, and what he was clearly feeling. The boy had been a loner for a long time; it would take getting used to to deal with a family like this one. She didn't mistake his words for anger, or for the desire to be alone. He was just overwhelmed, and really, that was ok. Healthy, even.

"You guys are great," the shepherd finally continued, "but you have no idea how weird it is to hear you argue over what's best for me. If you have to argue in front of me, make it something funny." He closed his eyes and steadied his shallow breathing. That was the end of his speech, it would seem.

For now.

"I'm sorry Jack," Tooth said after a long pause. She meant it, but she was also heartened by his request. He flopped his hand at her in a "quit apologizing" gesture, and she smiled softly.

For everything that had happened, Toothiana thought they were doing pretty well.

* * *

Bunnymund wasn't sure what to expect when he knocked on Sandy's door. The dream maker hadn't said a word to anyone since he got back from spreading dreams for a day. The man was really starting to frighten him with his closed-off behavior. So, he thought it best to get Sandy out of his room and into the daily activities while they had the chance. This whole setup wouldn't last forever, after all.

"Hey, Sandy," he called softly through the door, wrapping his knuckles on its surface. "It'll be time to check Jack's dressings soon; thought maybe you'd wanna give me a hand?"

Silence answered him, which was no surprise. But sand did not answer him either, which was as disconcerting now as it ever had been. He palmed the door handle – unlocked – and cautiously opened the door. If this was going to become routine, there would have to be a serious –

Sandy was huddled in the corner, clutching at his chest. A spike of dread lanced through Bunny so fast it actually hurt.

"Sandy!" he gasped, and bounded over on mostly healed limbs. His hands could do no more than hover before the little man was gesturing him away with shaking fingers. "What's wrong?"

Sandy looked up at him, eyes clouded and face tight with pain. Bunny fought with the overwhelming need to panic. His nose twitched furiously as he huffed the air in quick bursts. Something did smell off…

Sandy turned his face into his arm and coughed. The non-vocal rush of air was quickly followed by a gag that _did_ make noise, and it disturbed Bunny deeply. He touched his friend's shoulder, wanting so desperately to help.

And then it hit him. The tar and oil smell.

He pushed Sandy's shoulder to make him sit straighter. Black stained the crook of the dream maker's elbow.

"No," Bunny groaned. "Not you too…"

Sandy wouldn't meet his eyes, and the Pooka honestly felt like crumbling in on himself. His frantic side was overtaking the warrior. "We – we need to tell the others. We need to purify you –"

Sandy was suddenly very animated. He shook his head vehemently, reaching out to grasp Bunny's arm. The ice burns still stung a bit at the pressure, but it helped him clear his mind and focus on his friend.

Tendrils of sand entwined over his head, beginning a series of pictures Bunny could only hope he would understand. The familiar shape of the Old Man's dagger, and Sandy's silhouette. The dagger poked the tiny man, and the man burst into sand, then reformed into his refined shape. Bunny didn't understand.

"The purification would kill you?"

Sandy shook his head and cinched his brow. He pressed his hands together, and Bunny watched them melt into swirling drifts of gold. They reformed a moment later into the full-flesh limbs the warrior was more familiar with. That was all the help he needed.

"Your body won't purify like ours would, is that it?" Bunny was ready to curse the language barrier between them as if it were a physical enemy. But Sandy nodded this time, but that only instilled more dread. It made sense, since Sandy's body was elementally different from the rest of them. But if they couldn't purify him…

"Sandy, what do we do?"

The helpless shrug did not help. At all. This was a terrible thing.

"Mate, this is serious! We have to do something. At least let me fetch Tooth. You can use sign language with her." Then he would be able to understand what was going on.

Sandy hesitated, but after a moment it was obvious he wasn't going to come up with a good reason not to call Tooth in on this. Looking defeated, he nodded and leaned back in his corner. Once he settled back, Bunny took off for Jack's room.

* * *

_They were buried the day before Jackson had awoken. Three weeks later, the graves still looked too fresh – as if they had been buried yesterday. The dirt was bare of grass, and the headstones were simple and white. Jackson sat before the marker of Obadiah Chesterton. It bore only his name and the years he lived, and it felt wrong._

_It didn't say anything about Obi being a good son, a good brother, or a great friend. It didn't mention all the days he spent playing in the forests, or working hard in the fields, or pulling pranks on the girls. Or teaching his sister to read when he knew he'd get in trouble for it. For the times he stood up for the younger kids when the older ones picked on them. For the times he matched wits with the snobby girls that talked down to the others because their dresses weren't pretty enough. _

_There were no words about how badly Obi had wanted to be a leader in the settlement one day, or how smart he was._

_Or how Jackson was at fault for Obi's death._

"_I'm sorry," he whispered breathlessly, and pulled his cloak closer around him._

_It was early fall – still warm by most peoples' standards. But Jackson was skinny and weak, and he was always cold. Ma wrapped an arm around his bony shoulders and let him lean on her, both for comfort and for support to his weakened body. She took a deep breath and broke the silence tentatively._

"_You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened, Jackson," she said. "They would never have done so."_

"_I should have stopped them," he insisted, quiet and anguished. They had talked about this a few times before Jackson insisted on seeing the graves. No one could convince him he didn't belong in the ground next to them. He hadn't been the one who suggested drinking the well water, after all, but he had considered the wisdom of the idea and decided to say nothing. It had cost his best friends their lives._

_Ma stayed quiet, but she released a mournful sigh as a silent rebuttal. The silence carried on for a long while._

"_Let's get you inside," she said at last. Part of him was grateful for it, but the rest of him wanted to stay here and find a way to pay penance for his irresponsibility. The ground was hard under him, and it was starting to hurt his tired bones._

_Ma nudged him to stand. Jackson felt stiff and weak, but she was there to keep him upright. Pa would meet them at the edge of the small cemetery, ready to carry Jackson back to the house if need be. He was ashamed when he realized he would need the help, but a small part of him took a selfish kind of comfort in the way his father's arms warmed his back and shoulders. He turned his face into the man's chest to escape the pitying looks on a few settlers' faces, and he mourned silently. He mourned with a horrible ache deep inside his chest, knowing he would never forget the horrible mistake he had made._

He woke up to the low vibrations of Russian grumbles. The sound buzzed in his head and chest so that he wasn't really sure if he was in bed or somewhere else. The comfort of the voice, though, outweighed his confusion. The vibrations helped to scatter the pressured ache of the memory from which he woke, and he took it for all it was worth, feeling more exhausted now than the last time he had been awake.

Distinct yeti speak was being grumbled back, and for a split second Jack couldn't bring himself to care about anything other than the fact that yetis were annoyingly loud even when they were trying to be quiet.

"_Byo nart narg blah."_

"Then put different lock on the stall door."

"_Yarg blarg?"_

"I don't care what kind as long as Dresden cannot open it. I can't have him stealing so much food – he'll get too fat to be on sleigh team, and then we have bored hellion on our hands."

"Reindeer trouble?" Jack muttered and squirmed.

"Jack! Good to see you are awake," North replied happily.

Now that the empty sadness was starting to lift a little (though it was sure to haunt him for a long while), a few things became apparent to the winter spirit. The heavy pain in his side was starting to throb with renewed intensity. There was a distinct line of constriction around his hips, and the feel of soft, loose fabric around his legs. Was he wearing pants? If he was, they weren't the ones he always wore.

And North's face was so close above him. This angle of perception was all wrong… He wasn't sure he liked the position he was lying in. Then he was shifted, and the movement under his back told him everything he needed to know. His breath hitched as North's arm shifted, straightening the slope of Jack's back. The movement hurt, but the new position was more comfortable. He steadied his breath quickly.

"Um. North?"

"_Da_?"

"…Why are you cradling me?"

He expected North to be sheepish about it, or to be hasty with his explanation, or try to explain why this shouldn't make Jack feel like a child. The man was far from any of those things. He was completely comfortable and serious.

"You were squirmy, so I hold you. Don't want you to stretch your wound too soon, or we would never get you to hold still so we can fix it."

Well, now that was probably true. While it didn't do much to make Jack feel less mortified and childish, it didn't do anything to make that feeling worse either. For having been around the other Guardians such a short time, they seemed to know him very well. Maybe that was what hardship could do between people – make them familiar with each other far quicker (though he had been unconscious for most of the last week). Frankly, this whole thing was starting to weird him out. Too close, too much, too soon. He wouldn't have minded it so much a few days ago, or even before that, when he was so very alone. But he was remembering more and more about the family he had and lost.

Just thinking about what he had now – what he could lose – was starting to terrify him. He wanted to be a part of this family now; finally had the chance to be more than a lonely shepherd looking for trouble to stave of the boredom. But if facing hardship with this family cut as deeply and hurt as badly as the last, then…

Jack cinched his brow in thought, accidently giving North a weird look that made the man raise his own brows in question. He didn't notice.

If it was as bad, then… what?

Would he go back to living as a loner as soon as he was well enough?

Not if his eternal life depended on it – he'd sooner face another shadowing. And he'd fight the darkness just as hard to stay right here.

So why was he in such a state of trepidation? Jack marveled at the clarity in his mind just then. How long had it been since he had taken any tinctures? He could use some pain killers…

"Jack?" North asked. The yeti looked at him curiously, too. Jack decided he was in a very strange place indeed, feeling very weird and very comfortable at the same time.

"This is weird," he blurted. He was just making an observation, albeit he hadn't meant to say it out loud. He didn't dare think of some of the things he might have said recently that he couldn't remember…

"You want me to put you back in bed?" North asked, already moving to do so.

"Nah," Jack replied lightly, holding his breath until the movement stopped. He was incredibly surprised to realize how much he meant that, so he repeated himself. "Nah. I'm good."

The yeti snickered and trundled off to do his job. Jack didn't pay him any attention. He was busy sitting in the weirdest place he'd ever been in a proverbial sense: a bubble of pure contentment. And, as long as he didn't breathe too deeply, he was satisfied to endure the mild discomfort of his wounds in favor of just _being_. North didn't seem to mind; Jack was small enough to cradle in one arm, and the wonder guardian slipped a pair of glasses onto his nose with his free hand and picked up a book where it had been draped over his knee.

Jack watched him read silently for a few minutes, catching the deft movement of his thumb to flip the page. Something occurred to the younger spirit.

"Hey, North?"

"_Da_, Jack."

"Can we keep this between us?"

North chuckled, looking down at him with a twinkle in his eye, and in that moment, Jack realized that North would have made a wonderful grandfather as a mortal. And maybe that's what he was – the whole world's best grandpa.

"This will be our manly secret," North teased. Jack cackled breathily. North went back to reading his book, and Jack went back to just being.

* * *

This couldn't be happening…

Tooth stared at Sandy's flying hands, completely flabbergasted.

"No," she found herself saying out loud. "No, this isn't happening. You're wrong…"

"Tooth," Bunny warned. "Please, just tell me what he's saying."

"Yeah, sorry... H-he's not sure how this happened, exactly. Maybe it was his time in Pitch's control, or his brief struggle with dark thoughts after the purification – Hold on, _revenge_?"

"We don't have time, Tooth!" Bunny snapped at her, desperate to understand if his tone was anything to go by.

"Sorry…" She took a steadying breath and changed her tone enough to indicate she was speaking Sandy's words directly. "_I was hoping the act of sending dreams to the children would help. It did, but I waited too long – it's not enough. It strengthened me, but it also took a lot of energy to see the kids. I have weakened myself in an already vulnerable state. I'll end up like Jackson or Aster if we can't resolve this."_

"You said your body won't purify like ours does," said Bunny. He was fishing for hope, looking for an explanation for what they should do. Tooth was already somewhat familiar with the answer, but she wanted to find comfort in Sandy's words as badly as the Pooka did.

Sandy looked tired. His hands were trembling and clumsy in comparison to his usual gestures, and somehow he still made his movements look so graceful. Tooth's heart ached, and she wondered why all this couldn't just be over.

"_My body can be…"_ He spelled his next words letter for letter, his language to flourished for the more succinct gestures of sign language._ "…corporeal or ethereal. I can be made of flesh or dream sand, and I am often both." _Sandy pulled at the lapels of his sand robes for emphasis._ "Carving an exit for darkness to escape me won't work on a body that defies physical nature. I know little of purifying myself, but I know it has to be done from within, by me."_

"How?" Bunny was certainly on top of calling out the obvious questions.

"_I have to banish my dark intentions, I think. I wanted revenge – I have to satisfy the need for justice in order to find closure and let go._ You can't do that!" Tooth interrupted her translation. "Revenge will strip you of Guardianship."

Sandy held up his hands to calm her.

"_I've been thinking on it. I'm sure we can find a way for me to succeed in satisfying my desires without resorting to revenge."_

Bunny's ears perked up, and then his spine straightened, and then he let out a breathy "oh" of clarity. Sandy folded his arms tightly over his chest and waited for Bunny to speak his piece, sending a significant look to Tooth when the silence stretched out.

"Bunny, what is it?" she asked. He met her eyes as if he hadn't realized she was in the room. He looked at Sandy, and his ears danced about in subtle changes of direction. It was a sign they had become familiar with – Bunnymund was struggling with himself.

"You need to satisfy the wishes you've been struggling with in order to purify yourself, is that right?" he asked the dream maker. Sandy stifled a cough, but nodded, leaning heavily against his corner.

"You realize you're suggesting you get revenge without getting revenge?"

Sandy nodded, and Tooth had to wonder where this was going. She was especially worried when Bunny got That look. The one with the tiny, dangerous smile, and the flat-back ears, and the promising gleam in his eye, and the solid, ready stance of a warrior.

"Mate, if you wanna walk a fine line like that, then you've got the right Pooka on your side. We're gonna get you your satisfaction and penance."

Tooth's plumage ruffled, alarmed. "Are you suggesting he get his revenge?! You're asking him to destroy his Guardianship!"

"Nah, nothing like that," Bunny assured, "but close enough."

Sandy shook his head and cinched his brow, confused.

"I don't understand," Tooth admitted. Bunny's grin got wider. Electric, dangerous energy rolled off the warrior in palpable, bittersweet tremors. He looked directly at Sandy.

"You and I are gonna pay a visit to the Boogieman."

* * *

**Hello everyone!**

**I apologize for the long wait on this chapter, but I have some exciting news to share that will hopefully explain the delay. **

**Thanks to everyone's encouragement and support, I've found the courage to take a huge step further into the creative world. I'm in the process of getting my first original work published! I've been hard at work on my first novel, **_**Heart of Embers**_**, which will hopefully be running the presses by the end of this year (2013). Now, I can't really toot my own horn here on because I want to respect their policies, but I'm in the midst of starting a blog for anyone who's interested in following my progress. I'll let you know when it's up and running (hopefully by the next chapter post), and put the location on my profile. I'm also on DA under the same pen name if you want to find me there.**

**I really enjoyed writing this chapter. In all honesty, it had to be taken apart and reconstructed a couple times to get Sandy's subplot to flow right, but I'm pretty satisfied with the results. I realized belatedly that Jack's featured memory in this one is out of the timeline with the others. I'm ok with that, because memories don't always come back in order. The next chapter will be bursting with excitement and adventure! Woot! **

**A HUGE thank you to all my wonderful reviewers: Alaia Skyhawk, savedbygrace94, Melancholy and Contradictions, DragonflyonBreak, Kaylessa, IstariannaCrudgo, Fumus000, hope is my life, kyuubecky, E, not-exactly-the-truth, Kitsune Foxfire, Dragowolf, XCountrySkiier03, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, TaintedPerspective, Anne Camp aka Obi-Quiet, Catflower Queen, InsaneKuroNeko, Avatar Aang, naien543, Seefs, Chuni Luni, and two lovely Guests!**

**And of course, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read, fav, and follow. You make my heart soar to impossible heights!**

**And, by way of apology for making you wait so long, I've tagged a little sneak – peak of my steampunk AU to the end here. It's a descriptive intro (little bit boring), and then a scene that I particularly like (way exciting!). Now, this little scene is nestled into the story somewhere beyond the beginning, so some stuff may not make a whole lot of sense yet, but when I eventually post the story, I hope it will be even better than **_**Shadowed Victory**_**! There is also a piece of cover art I'm finishing up for this story, which I'll post on DA in the next few days if my scanner behaves. If you want to search for it later this week, use a few (or all) of the following tags: RoTG, Rings of Fate, Jack Frost, Pitch, mask, steampunk.**

**So, without further ado, here's the "grand reveal". I hope you enjoy.**

**See you soon!**

**~mj**

* * *

_The Immortal Rings of Fate_

"_The Reader Would Know Its Contents"_

The gray-skinned man took a drag from his cigarette. The smoke rushed away with the air currents dancing about the dirigible's massive frame. The sea glittered, and land loomed in the distance.

This year, 3013, was a terrible year indeed. Years before that had been terrible, too, but this year marked a path to mankind's imminent self-destruction. A man as brilliant as he could see it clear as the hideous sun. It was as imminent as the disappearance of oil had been – as necessary as the return of steam technology. As natural as the resurrection of Victorian beauty and style.

The structured Disputes between countries were supposed to be a measure to keep the peace. They had turned into a kind of sick entertainment for the upper classes.

Spirits and Sprites, manufactured by science in its most advanced, brass-gilt form, were created to protect the world and keep the peace. They were being used as little more than showpieces and attack dogs, pawns in the ever-deteriorating structure of the Disputes.

Military men wanted the stronger Spirits for their own devices, and the threat of binding the manufactured "immortals" to their home soil for greater control was a looming threat on the horizon.

One mysterious man stood above the corruption and decay, known only as the Great Dr. Mim. With his equally enigmatic Spirit – Sanderson, Man of Dreams – it was becoming apparent that the manufactured beings were not meeting their full potential. Dr. Mim planned to change that by achieving the Immortals' freedom.

Notorious Professor Pitchinier also wanted to fix the world-wide decay. But their goals did not share a common end. More obsessed with elementally-based Sprites than with emotionally-powered and more stable Spirits, the gray-skinned Professor had wheedled his way into the hearts of the American military forces. Already a favorite among many higher officials around the world for his gold and black clockwork horses, called Night Mares (for having one was becoming a sign of power and prestige), he became obsessed with the vastly unstable Sprites. Anyone could control emotions if given training, for they were docile side effects of human intelligence – why would he want to make a Spirit powered by such a thing? No, Sprites could be much more powerful, for nature's wrath still could not be sated even with the day's marvelous technology.

It was with this knowledge that he set forth to create the most powerful of all Sprites and Spirits, controllable only by the maker himself. This Sprite, strong enough to be mistaken for a Spirit, would ideally dominate the Disputes against the world's most powerful Spirits: Sanderson, Man of Dreams; Thiana the Fairy; Nikolov St. North; and Aster the Curious. He was determined to show the world that his beliefs in the Dispute system, the way he planned to fix it, was right for the world.

And he would do so with his newest creation: Jackson, the Man of Ice.

The land of Australia came ever closer. Home of the aborigines. Home of vast stretches of untainted wilderness. Home to dry air and sandy soil. Home to Aster the Curious. This was the best place for Jackson's shining debut. The Disputes many were gathering for were not consequential in any manner – the important ones always took place in Switzerland.

No, this was merely a chance for the world to gather together their Spirits and Sprites and test them, keep them sharp for the more important fights. It was a chance to mingle with upper classes. It was a chance to start scandals for those who dared – which was most of them.

It was the chance Professor Kosmotis Pitchinier had been waiting for.

Tomorrow's Dispute against Aster was sure to be very entertaining.

* * *

"_For Thine Entertainment: The Grand Reveal"_

The crowd jeered. Bunny couldn't help but smirk at the scowling child. The too-young Sprite was hardly worth the scuffle, and the Pooka almost felt sorry for whipping his scrawny back end into next week. This fight was nearly over already – it was an unfair match to pit a Sprite against a Spirit.

The tribal-painted creature glanced about the crowd, keeping one eye on the boy. The Jackson fellow scanned the crowd to look for his handler, and Aster let him. What good would it do him now, anyway? He was sorely outmatched to the giant rabbit. North America was about to lose their dispute to Australia, and that alone made him giddy – heady, even – on the victory. It also made his heart twinge with exhaustion and guilt, but at least he would eat tonight.

"Come on then, handler!" the morphite taunted into the writhing crowd. "Help out your Sprite! Clearly, he needs it!" The more entertainment the lords and ladies got, the more food he would get by day's end. "Perhaps you dressed him too warmly!" The crowd laughed, though his statement rang true. Jackson had far too much clothing on for an Australian dispute – a thick jacket, heavy shoes, a scarf…

The boy's glare shifted to him, clouded blue eyes narrow over the line of the hideous mask that hid his face, but not his pain. He heaved a few breaths before yelling through the thick leather.

"Be careful what you wish for, Kangaroo!" Vapors hissed through the vents on the mask's sides. Ice-white hair shifted on a too-cool breeze.

Aster scowled, ready to rebuff, when from the dredges of corsets and dinner jackets, the dark scientist oozed forth. All pale skin and yellow eyes, just as Aster remembered, making his hackles rise at the wrongness of the man (not that he could pass judgment, being a child of the laboratories). He towered over the white-haired boy, placing a long-fingered hand on his shoulder. The grin he wore was insidious and abhorrent.

"Now now, Pooka," Pitchinier drawled out his voice like an oil slick. "You shouldn't tease a new opponent. You never know how it will turn out for you. These southern climes are always so hot… Why don't we cool it down a bit?"

The sly fingers on Jackson's shoulder hooked his thick pea coat, shucking it gracefully away from a frame even thinner than Aster had suspected. A sudden wind kicked through the ring, chilling him to the bone with the sting of ice, making ladies shriek as it nipped at their ankles. The Pooka was forced to shield his face from the blasting chill, lest his eyes be frozen too. When he looked up, the boy had toed off his fancy shoes and floated above the ground with the help of the coiling winds.

Pitchinier's hand was on the back of his neck, calming the winds and guiding him to the ground again. The moment his toes touched down, ferns of frost skittered out along the ground. The crowd shushed and awed before picking up their jeers again.

"Hold, Jackson," Pitch quietly commanded. The frost stopped its encroachment just before reaching Aster's paws. Pitch held out a grand arm to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he called, and they hushed, greedy for the showmanship he offered. His smile was crooked and sly.

"I offer for your consideration, not an elemental Sprite, but an elemental Spirit!" The burbling quietude of the crowd died, leaving the hot, dusty atmosphere abuzz in the sudden silence. Awkward. It made Aster's hands itch, suddenly leery of what this manufactured boy and his twisted doctor were up to.

"I sense disbelief in your silence," Pitch continued haughtily. Jackson seemed to flinch (however minutely) under the words. "Very well," and the scientist dropped his voice, returning his golden gaze to Aster, who glared back. "However tarnished the grand reveal may be, this little sparing match is over. Jackson, hold your breath."

Jackson obeyed, inhaling deeply through the mask and breathing no more. Pitch's fingers made quick work of the intricate harness surrounding the boy's head, and with a gentle tug he took the mask away. Jackson's face remained calm, as if he was expecting something good to happen – Aster swore to himself he'd wipe that look off the boy's face with his feet. It would be a shame to mar features so pale and perfect and young, but if he didn't treat him like an enemy, he would have no food granted him this day.

"Ladies and gentlemen of our magnificent world," Pitch announced. "The United States of America presents to you our newest Immortal Spirit: Jackson Frost, the Man of Ice." He turned and walked away, tossing a casual word over his shoulder as he left.

"Release."

Jackson crouched down, cupping his hands over his mouth. With his exhale came a great gust of frigid air, and on the heels of that came a cloud of thick, heavy vapor that expanded out from his hands and galloped across the ground. Aster bit back a curse as the cloud rushed his hocks, freezing his sweat-slick fur in clumps upon contact like nitrogen. He pattered his feet amidst the mist to disperse it, but it crawled upon him with needle-claws as the hot-dry air thickened with the drier-freezing fog. Within seconds, Australia's ring of fate and its crowd were surrounded by a cloud cool as the American forests in autumn.

Out of the single breath of a child came absolute blindness, a chilling liquid nitrogen fog. And Aster knew he was whipped.


	14. Cosmic Tightrope

It was dark.

Of course it was dark.

His domain. His kingdom. And it was overrun by blasted sand horses. Creatures he had fooled himself into thinking he could control. A foolish fever dream of power that had nearly destroyed him.

That's what he got for mixing dream sand with forbidden shadows.

The king of fear shifted in his bottomless corner, his form hollow and tremulous. It felt as if the tired illumination of a single flickering candle could banish him.

It likely could.

The night mares whinnied and bayed. Trapped, furious, and feasting on their master's essence – his very center. He reckoned he had that unexpected attack in America to thank for the fresh wave of fear that roiled through him – gave him strength and substance – but then, that wasn't really his brand of fear, wasn't what he existed for. It didn't build him up like the innocent thrill of ghost stories and bad dreams.

But it did sate the mares of sand and shadow.

Terror was meant to feed the darker side of the realms – A realm he was only half part of, as a mediator, a failsafe. A realm Pitch Black had dabbled with in his hay day without the fear of losing control or being punished for his meddling.

He'd felt that power so recently, too – reflexively reached for it when the Guardians were so close to conquered. He mourned the loss of that unstoppable force. Mourned the loss of his wanted apprentice, too.

Ah, Jack… The good they could have done –

Flat black teeth nipped angrily at Pitch's half-formed shoulder. He flicked it away with a hiss. It was getting easier to shove the mares off, if he let the terror fuel his strength and feed them vicariously. Careful, though – nothing beneficial in becoming a demon of baser instincts and drooling greed. He had no interest in pure evil, only the glimpses of power it could offer.

Think of the good he could have done the world! Frightening the ignorant masses was, in his humble opinion, the best way to make them aware of the world around them. Scare them, and they will scatter. But then they will gather in a new, restored balance.

The one thing he always knew was the most powerful element to maintain in the entire world: fear. Right now, hundreds of people were afraid and thrilled to get married, hundreds were afraid and terrified because a bomb detonated in a public place.

Good and bad. Pure and corrupted.

It was the same Center, if he let it be. But it was a fine balance – a cosmic tightrope – and his responsibility to keep it that way through his element. He was the chaotic neutral force of earth.

The Guardians sought to ruin cosmic balance by spoiling the world into complacency. Too much wonder, too much light would fill the world with hubris and disdain for what they had, rather than thankfulness and respect. It would open up the gate to release real darkness – an element the human race couldn't hope to overcome – even more than what already lingered in mortal corners.

Jack could have helped him stop that downward spiral. Jack could have tipped the balance into the favor of much needed shadows – the kind of darkness that could be withdrawn and rebalanced when the time came, and tipped in their favor for as long as they so desired. Jack could have become Pitch's family, his compatriot, his brother in arms, the Shadow's shadow. Together, they were ten times stronger than they were apart – and that was opposing each other!

Oh, the influence they could have had…

Pitch had moaned at the lost opportunity. He mourned the failure of his efforts to put the Guardians out of their misguided misery. Moreso, he mourned his failure to Jack Frost.

The mares whinnied, gnashing their teeth against the hopeless, rage limned shroud that settled through the crumbling ruins.

The winter shepherd was now thoroughly ruined.

It had been a perfect plan: Jack wouldn't listen to reason, so what choice was there? Pitch had given the boy a few guiding shadows and planted the fear of being forever alone. He planned to come back for him, prove he had a family in Pitch. He'd even left him with the remains of his staff with the intent of mending it himself. But the brat had showed up in battle – staff whole and ego soaring – to help the Guardians like a belligerent child unwilling to accept proper guidance.

It was up to Pitch to end that belligerence, for the good of his soon-to-be apprentice. He had said as much – however cryptically: _"Let's end this, shall we?"_ – tightened his grip on the inky shadows inside the shepherd. Only just enough to weaken him, defeat him, equate his earth-shaking icy blasts to a parlor trick.

The key to fear is to play with the mind.

He had him virtually under his wing, so close to extending his dark and balancing reach into the winter realm.

But even in weakness, Jack Frost found strength.

Pitch lost his careful, constant grip on the shadows he had summoned, and in the throes of defeat he had let them go completely. Not only had his mares attacked his own sense of fear, Jack's shadows were officially wild. Pitch was sure to pay dearly for his unmitigated failure, for his complex meddling in a darker force he was trying to keep at bay in the first place. He knew the moment the Guardians had discovered it, too, feeling their fear laced with rage. He smelled the acrid odor of Aster's vomited horror, and the searing, gritty heat of Sandy's fury strongest of all. Sometimes those flavors still lingered.

And Jack was doomed to damnation – a transformation into those baser instincts and drooling greed Pitch had no interest in.

A real monster.

Let the child become a mindless demon, he had thought. With the Guardians still running rampant, surely Frost's damned form was more than strong enough to tilt the balance again anyway. Perhaps then the Nightmare King wouldn't have to suffer the ethereal backlash sure to be served by higher powers he didn't dare contemplate the name of.

A new demon – immensely powerful – seemed like an adequate compensation for manipulating a power he had no business touching in the first place. And so pitch huddled in his crumbling prison, submissive to the shadows he had mingled with sand, and calculating. He tasted, in his oversensitive frailty, every flicker and flare of fear (which empowered) and bravery, the act of doing something in spite of fear (which knocked the breath out of him).

He waited, hoping Jack would be made aware of what was happening to him.

He waited for the unique, crisp, evergreen-tinged taste of Jack's fear to swell with the growing shadows inside. Waited tremulously for that cool and pungent breeze over his center, prepared to draw strength from the Shepherd's imminent downfall, however tragic it may have been.

He didn't have to wait long for the first whiff to steal across, nearly unnoticed. It built steadily after that, feeding the King and subduing the dark horses until Jack's fear hit a scattered fever-pitch that made him moan at the refreshing wave of strength. For one glorious moment, the taste on his center was almost like chewing on tree sap in the middle of a winter forest – dark and smoky and so bitter and sticky he could hardly stand it and couldn't get enough at the same time.

And then the moment was gone. Ruined. Spoiled by _bravery, _of all things. It turned the bitter sap to saccharine syrup on the back of Pitch's tongue, pulled the air out of him as if he were in a vacuum space, and he literally gagged. Now, days later, the precious fear had yet to return with such force. It was always coming and going, but tempered and undermined by constant, cloying bravery. Still feeding his center, but making him feel sick.

It was clear Jack's shadows had been banished. There would be no new demon to claim credit for. The seething spiritual forces roiling far below his fortress would eventually come to collect. Or, the Guardians would find a way into his shifting fortress to exact "righteous punishment". He was doomed, from above and from below, and he wasn't sure which force he would rather face – Sanderson's wrath, or the Powers that Be.

And the biggest thorn in the King's side, far and above everything else, was irony: through the days, through all of Jack's indulgent waves of fear, Pitch was deeply, secretly glad the rampant Shadowing had failed. …

What use was a demonic force he couldn't control, anyway?

…

Pitch's tired chuckle echoed through stale air. Bitterness rang true, as did the heavy twinge of remorse. He had never meant for Jack to be truly Shadowed. He didn't intend for the boy to suffer as greatly as he had. He would surely have returned to the Antarctic, eased the Shadows' progression painlessly along, and shown Jack how to reach his full potential with the older spirit's help. He would have revealed his purpose behind covering everything in darkness and cold for a time, for the good of mankind. They could have been the most powerful forces on their plane of existence.

It had all been ruined by Jack's bravery and strength.

Irony was a tart little hussy…

But oh, how sweet she could be, too.

Because now, after all that, Sanderson was falling.

Pitch may have failed to destroy his natural enemy as he had originally thought, but it appeared Sanderson's imprisonment had weakened him enough that the call for revenge was too much to bear even after Jack had been pulled from darkness' dangerous ledge. With any luck, the dream maker would fall to his own brand of shadows. How lovely it would be, then, to have a brother rather than a nemesis.

Cold, oily laughter echoed through the caverns. The mares watched his inky, shifting form, wary and restless.

There was hope for his plans yet. While he may have lost the comrade he wanted, he could still gain a natural brother. And while he would not risk using true shadows again for a very, very long time, the darkness cast by a spirit of light might be the force that transformed an enemy into an ally.

That kind of irony was the type Pitch Black could not get enough of.

And when the gritty, honey-laced fear caressed his center, he took comfort as well as strength – a deep, nemesis-bonded strength he'd learned to love the taste of. It was the most potent of all fears he could draw from.

When he felt the sensation move, plot, and shift, so did he, standing for the first time since his defeat. By the time Sandy arrived in Pitch's lair to try saving himself, Pitch would be ready. The Nightmare King would welcome his new brother.

He may have lost his chance in Jack Frost, but the demise and darkening of Sanderson Mansnoozie was imminent and irreversible.

* * *

**Hello, all you beautiful people. You have been so wonderful and supportive and patient with me, and I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for that. This chapter is short because it's more of an interim – info that's needed for the solidarity of the story, but it didn't really fit at the end of the last chapter, and it doesn't really fit at the beginning of the next. So, this is kind of like a break between acts, you could say. It was really tricky, trying to be in Pitch's head without getting all confused, but still tying it into the key points in the film where my plot began. I hope you liked it, even though nothing really happened here. It was more like an exploration of the psychological train wreck that is Pitch Black. There is a truly kick-tail chapter coming up, and I'm working really really hard on it so I can wow y'all with wonderful plot and action and depth. School is almost done for the semester, and personally, I'm ready for that break! Anyone else ready for that? **

**So! I have lots of people to thank! To my reviewers: Alaia Skyhawk, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, Eternal She-Wolf, rezzkat, Melancholy and Contradictions, not-exactly-the-truth, E (Guest), Night-Fury1, tynder20, kyuubecky, Lovepuppy316, naien543, Dragowolf, savedbygrace94, Fumus000, Miss Megz, dreams-that-pour-onto-da-earth, Kaylessa, Midnight Lupus, Sheeptopus, IstarianaCrudgo, NinjaStar777, Avatar Aang, White Wolf Writers, Catflower Queen, bit-of-a-dork, FreeFallingOnAMusicNumber, Chuni Luni, TeruKurebayashi, beadwork, Autumnights, Nefertari Queen, and Sheeijan. And, of course, a thank you to everyone who has fav'ed, followed, and continue to come back and read. You are all wonderful.**

**I just have to give a special shout out to the readers who have found my fic recently, and still took the time and effort to review **_**every**_** chapter. You have made me feel so special and lovely! There's also a lot of new names I see in the reviews, and lots of the familiar ones I love to see. You are all so very, very awesome!**

**I love you all!**

**MJ**


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